Kranky has had its share of unlikely successes-- from Godspeed You! Black Emperor to, more recently, Deerhunter-- but from the start the concept behind the label has been pretty consistent: They sign what they like. In fact, as recalled in a recent Pitchfork interview, label founders Bruce Adams and Joel Leoschke originally formed Kranky specifically to distribute their discovery Labradford, and the rest rolled out from there. Other bands have brought it more money or attention, but looking back to its roots, Kranky remains the record label that Labradford built.
Alas, Labradford went on indefinite (if unofficial) hiatus back in 2001, but vocalist/guitarist Mark Nelson has continued to release records as Pan American, a close cousin to Labradford's trademark drone and drift. Given Nelson's minimalist métier, it's a wonder he's been able to get the mileage out of his music that he has. Yet Nelson's work as Pan American has been admirably consistent in tone if somewhat uneven in quality. The excellent 2004 release, Quiet City, for example, re-imagined Labradford as a radical chamber outfit (albeit still draped in static and gauze). But 2006's oblique meditation on fatherhood, For Waiting, For Chasing, was virtually weightless in its ambient approximation of amniotic stasis. Pan American is a small-scale project in every sense and only a fan could explain the differences between one album and the next. But by this point, it seems safe to say that Nelson is probably not out to make new converts.
The new White Bird Release isn't nearly as passive as its predecessor, but at the same time, it does often hew closer to linear ambient drift compared to the dub-inflected early Pan American releases or Nelson's subtle experiments in rhythm. At times, the album recalls Eno's mysterious but organic opus Ambient 4: On Land. Other times it's more modern and digital, like something from Kompakt's pop ambient stable (with an even less-defined pulse). Throughout, however, it's proof of how ambient music can benefit from a songwriter's disciplined ear and instinct for concision.
White Bird Release, while not as conceptual as For Waiting, For Chasing, almost by default flows as a sort of suite, with each track named after a fragment of this quotation: "There can be no thought of finishing for 'aiming at the stars" both literally and figuratively is a problem to occupy generations so that no matter how much progress one makes there is always the thrill of just beginning-- Dr. Robert Goddard in a letter to HG Wells, 1932." (Labradford used a similar trick ten years ago on E Luxo So, using the album credits as song titles.) Just what bearing each track has on the next-- track one is "There Can Be No Thought of Finishing", track two is called "For 'Aiming at the Stars'", and so on-- is unclear, other than to emphasize rocket scientist Goddard's awed contemplation of infinity.
Much ambient music serves a similar purpose, designed to float and mingle in the background almost invisibly, like it's part of the very air we breathe. Nelson is as guilty as anyone of occasionally making music seemingly designed to disappear. In its own quiet way, however, White Bird Release knows how to call attention to itself. "There Can Be No Thought of Finishing" begins with a thoughtful and pretty tremolo guitar melody, enhanced by Nelson's whispered vocals, but ends butting up against some discordant digital noise and echoing, almost random percussion. "For 'Aiming at the Stars'" starts as a repetitive homage to Frippertronics-- Nelsontronics?-- before a rubbery bass figure pulls the minimal melody in new directions. "Both Literally and Figuratively" pulls off a similar trick, congealing into something close to a traditional song, replete with rhythm section, halfway through.
"Is a Problem to Occupy Generations" may be not much more than hum and hiss. But it helps emphasize the pacific Nelsontronics piece "So That No Matter" before "How Much Progress One Makes" conflates all the impressive qualities that have marked past Labradford and Pan American releases into an impressive, deceptively propulsive whole. The static-filled noir of "There Is Always the Thrill of Just Beginning" and the Zen-inducing "Dr. Robert Goddard" ease the disc down gently, illustrating the beauty to be found between the notes, while "In a Letter to H. G. Wells, 1932" highlights the soulful essence-- invisible but present nonetheless-- in all the empty spaces and near-silence.
"It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow," said Goddard, who spent his life bringing mankind closer to outer space. One imagines White Bird Release would have therefore left him impressed, since it, like the best ambient music, achieves what once was considered impossible: With the ease of an old hand, the ever-steady Nelson brings the awesome and infinite recesses of space down to earth.
