On a certain day a couple of weeks ago, the warping of time suddenly became more noticeable than usual. All the past moments of my life were crushed into an instant under the fulcrum of perception. To evacuate work, we had to locate our boss. We found him on the roof, taking pictures. You can't quite see the Pentagon from downtown D.C., but the smoke was billowing up on the horizon. All I wanted to do was to go home, curl up under some sheets and drift off to soothing music. But on my return, I found myself transfixed to the television, unable to escape multiplying crash angles and paranoid predictions.
Since then, my thoughts have never been far from the crisis. That was the legacy of the day-- all other concerns seemed trivial. What was the difference between ambient and ethereal to the man and woman who clasped hands and leapt from one of the towers? But I finally did lie down to listen to a new album. Tap, tap, tap came the percussion out of the speakers, slow and regular. A series of chimes followed, like the ring of prepared drinking glasses. Hushed guitar reverb rose, soon followed by a theremin singing and the occasional buzz of some errant appliance. Five minutes later, soft female vocals materialized-- wordless vowels that mixed with the symphonic swells. The song progressed from fluid ether to short, pulsing waves, a series of psychedelic organ crests and troughs similar to Philip Glass' Glassworks. The tension relaxed. I felt calm.
Mus is Fran Gayo and Monica Vacas, a male/female duo from Spain. Normally, they release music in their native country on the Acuarela label. Reviews characterize their early material as electronic-oriented and their later work as more guitar-based. But Darla Records has offered them entry into their Bliss Out series, allowing them to show off a very gentle mix of the two influences. Aida's thirty-six minutes and nine seconds make for the kind of organic ambience that stirs little excitement but charms those who give it a chance.
Oh, and there's just two songs. The aforementioned "Aquel Inviernu" pauses around the 13th minute. The silence is broken with acoustic guitar strums and Vacas' near-whispered vocals. Darla's choice of the series' title seems ironic when you consider past contributors-- from Amp to Fuxa to American Analog Set. "Bliss Out" here signifies a drifting, shoegazing mode rather than the generic sense of joy. Vacas sings in Asturian, a Spanish dialect used in the principality of Asturia, and her understated delivery hints at melancholia: "Siempre dormir, siempre llorar" ("always sleeps, always cries"). Gayo harmonizes behind her, audible mostly as a hum. The instrumental strains stream together and the piece ends in keyboard minimalism near the twenty-minute mark.
The second song, "A Cielu Abiertu" ("The Open Door") continues like an edit of the first. A piano steps slowly in Harold Budd fashion, and music-box chimes tinkle innocently while Vacas graces us again with her lovely voice. And afterwards, Mus surprise with a warm horn melody and a sudden hiss, like bus brakes sighing. The thirteen-minute suite ends in the sound of rushing rainwater.
Change a letter of the band's name, and you have their closest relation: Iceland's Múm make similar electronic post-folk, simple and filled with emotional warmth. Mus offered the calmness I craved then; catharsis through excruciatingly painful music would have required energy I didn't possess, and I wasn't feeling any of that happy music. For a short while there, time flowed in the opposite direction. The half-hour passed far too quickly.
