Over their decade-plus long existence, Pelican have rarely, if ever, found themselves in a rush. The band's formation in Chicago in 2001 was a natural consequence of the slow-burning fires stoked by pioneering acts like Isis and Neurosis: more specifically, their cumulative, logic proof-like paths to the sublime. From the post-rock salvos of their debut Australasia to their recent effort Forever Becoming and its anthemic strivings, Pelican’s artful approach to metal has always been informed by the notion that all the leaden pieces (torrential riffs, sparse drum bursts, mournful synths) will eventually fall into their proper place when granted proper gravity and time. By gutting the easily relatable bits of metal—verse-chorus-verse templates, mach-speed solos, and most importantly, vocals—and placing a stronger emphasis on meditative forms, the band has successfully married post-rock with metal, broadening listeners’ understanding of both. Now all’s left is the singing.
Enter The Cliff EP—three reworked versions of the song of the same name from Forever Becoming, plus a previously unheard (and unassuming) cut titled "The Wait". The 25-minute affair seems pretty damn skimpy on paper, a treat for diehard fans at best. Fifteen seconds after pressing play, skepticism gives way to surprise as the band brandishes its hidden blade: a human voice, crying out from the striated spaces as if it were howling this whole time. This updated version of "The Cliff" marks the first time in six years—and only the second time in their entire career—that the band has recorded a song with vocals, after the title track off 2009’s What We All Come to Need. The gravelly, cigarette-shorn tone is a dead ringer for Mark Lanegan, but the bleary-eyed moans are actually all the Life and Times’ Allen Epley, a post-hardcore veteran cast here as a deranged Lothario incapable of envisioning the concept of "no". "Baby, you’re fighting destiny," he deadpans atop ornery riffs and crash of cymbals, "I’m getting close, you know/ I’m not leaving ‘till you say my name." As his demands of "Who do you love?" eventually coalesce into a somber semi-chant, we realize that Pelican didn’t break their lyrical silence to spout esoteric essays or wax transcendentalist, but rather to profile that familiar beast stalking dives and preying on good intentions—you know, that guy. Coupled with the straightforwardly sludgy music, "The Cliff"'s subject grounds Pelican’s atmospheric endeavors in a gritty realism; while some might consider this to be regressive, I find it the opposite—a much-needed shift in perspective from a group that’s always had its head in the clouds.
There are two other renditions of "The Cliff", both weird and worthwhile. Godflesh’s Justin Broadrick takes the instrumental way down, glitching out the synths and soldering an additional layer of industrial steel to everything to render the entire composition factorylike. The swampy bass rusts into a dull throb, the guitars whirr and rotate and sharpen themselves, and the mechanized drums hiss and clang in time. The vocal remix comes from Palms, the duo of Isis’ Aaron Harris and Bryant Clifford Meyer, who offer the song a shot of adrenaline. Their version marches along at a slightly quickened pace, spruced up with beefier, more involved drumming and the addition of some woozy samples recorded in reverse.
Both remixes of "The Cliff", like the instrumental and vocal versions of the song itself, posit ways in which a more melodically inclined Pelican could operate, vocals or no. I doubt anyone would be seriously dismayed if the group chalked up this EP to a sonic experiment and went back to making turbid masterpieces. At the same time, this little stopgap EP makes the prospect of a catchier, more melodic Pelican all the more appealing. If "The Cliff" is any indication, they’ve still got that lyrical touch, meaning there’s an entire narrative mode ready to be shaped by their able hands. For a band that thrives so much in liminal spaces, it would be a mistake to pass up that kind of opportunity.
