James Blackshaw isn't even 30 years old yet, but he's built himself, through a combination of otherworldly instrumental skill on the guitar and a highly developed sensibility for modern composition, into a renowned figure in the space between folk, classical music, minimalism, and experimentalism. It's tempting to think of him as a guitarist, mostly because he has such amazing command of that instrument, but he really is more than that. It's not quite as simple as saying he's also a pianist, though, because while he plays that instrument I tend not to think of him as a pianist so much as a composer who plays piano to achieve his goals.
It sets up a weird dichotomy in me when I listen to his music. I like it all, but I find I really prefer him when the acoustic guitar is in the lead. I think it boils down to this: When he builds around his guitar, it feels like I'm listening to his thoughts, the little bits of information and images floating around in his brain that he might not be able to set words to or otherwise organize. When the compositions are centered on the piano, I feel like I'm listening to his ideas, which is different. They are, it must be said, good ideas, and Blackshaw is getting better at realizing them-- last year's The Glass Bead Game used the piano to build towering drones that sometimes did little more than drone, but on All Is Falling, Blackshaw seems more in control and more fleet on the keys.
This much is very clear from the very first moments of the record, where Blackshaw tumbles in on the piano with a simple, repeated phrase that's joined by others that interlock with and embellish it. It progresses into a churning, dramatic sequence topped by little cascades that move in and out like weather systems-- it's compact and perhaps the sharpest thing he's done on the piano. When we finally hear him on the guitar on "Part 2", it's not his characteristic acoustic 12-string, but rather a clean-toned, six-string electric. For a time, he rather purposefully avoids density and the type of shifting movement he's known for, letting a couple of strings feel their way around what he's doing. It's only on the subsequent piece that he takes off and starts in on those wild runs and slowly morphing progressions. The whole thing flows together and culminates in the 12-minute "Part 7", which opens with a guitar part that could very well be a rock riff until it persists in repeating over and over, almost like a loop. The strings dance over the top of it, and the way they harmonize with it makes it feel as though the static part is changing with them.
Eventually, the guitar lets go, percussion comes in, and the piece becomes something far more urgent and even sinister. It's a surprising and powerful change-up, and one that might make for an easy entry point for rock fans looking to explore Blackshaw's work. It's also a moment that marks a transition between the phase where Blackshaw began exploring other timbres as a way of broadening his sound and a new phase where all these other tools he's given himself really seem close to achieving that same kind of stream-of-consciousness effect his guitar playing has.
