Combining synthesizers, field recordings, nylon-string guitar, and hushed singing, the Istanbul-born, Glasgow-based musician creates an intimate take on laptop folk.
Isik Kural’s in february opens with a bleary calm, like the first moment you open your eyes on a clear Sunday morning. Piano notes loop and twinkle with the grace of sunlight bouncing off the window, while Kural’s childlike voice gently wavers in a silk-soft whisper. It’s as comfy as a big quilt. Kural’s blooming synths conjure the delicate aura of Ernest Hood’s Neighborhoods or Haruomi Hosono’s Watering a Flower; in february similarly paints a charmingly homemade portrait of domestic whimsy. In his yawning lilt, Kural gives new meaning to the term “bedroom pop.”
With in february, the Istanbul-born, Glasgow-based Kural creates his own delightful take on laptop folk, combining field recordings, nylon-string guitar, synthesizers, and hushed singing, to sweetly psychedelic effect. Like an updated spin on the Orchid Tapes sound of artists like Blithe Field and Ricky Eat Acid in the ’10s, Kural’s music blurs the line between songwriting and sound design; tracks may start with a clear acoustic melody before breaking down into splintered tape loops of passing trains, or float in a haze of spinning bicycle sounds until crystallizing into a tender lullaby. Kural adds a healthy dollop of new age straight from the Leaving Records school as well, channeling the wide-eyed wallpaper music of Green-House and the soothing drift of Ana Roxanne into his fluffy sonic soufflé. In doing so, in february’s tracks feel less like songs and more like music-box melodies distilled to their airy essence.
Each sound feels as pristinely arranged as figurines in a dollhouse. The chattering birdsong in the backdrop of “paperhat,” the hand drums that pitter-patter underneath “hopefullyhopefully,” the cooing that flutters into the frame on the lovely “coral gables”—every piece of in february feels intentionally selected so as not to disturb the peacefulness of the larger picture. On “berceuse,” Kural hovers over guest vocalist spefy’s dainty vocals with a high-pitched synth tone as light and serene as humming wine glasses; it’s so precious that it feels as though the slightest wind could blow the whole thing over. Kural’s own vocals even resemble children’s music—as if Raffi decided to lead a sing-a-long version of Plantasia—and his quietly recited mantras about butterflies, lilies, seagulls, and similarly pastel-pigmented imagery only add to in february’s fragile feeling of innocence.
By the time the album nears its end, Kural’s kiddie vocals begin to teeter on the edge of cloying, particularly as the repetitive lyrics of “slippin” (which comes across sounding like “sleeping”) start to suggest literal naptime music. But with the closing “film festival,” Kural delivers one of his most elegant songs: After a radiant minute-long opening drone, Kural enters with a spliced-up piano loop more pensive and ethereal than anything that has come before. Where the rest of in february is bathed in a cheerful glow, “film festival” is melancholy and mysterious, ending the record on an ambiguous note that expands Kural’s microscopic sense of intimacy into otherworldly realms. It reaffirms Kural’s subtle control and skillful ability to spin just a few stray sounds into something so uplifting, heavenly, and warm. For all of in february’s smallness, it overflows with loving sincerity.
0 comments:
Post a Comment