In the beginning, there was Nothing. And it was good. But many people proposed that Something be done about it. There exists a concept of too much of a good Nothing. The people started creating things to fill Nothing, and most of them created things worse than Nothing. After a while, people started to clamor for a return to Nothing, or at the very least, not much more than Nothing. And thus, the "new age" dawned, with soft synth purrs and bird noises ruling the day.
Other people started making big Somethings again, usually with guitars, basses, and drums. And over time, the Nothings and the Somethings grew apart until, from the heavens of alpha-wave sleep, came Tristeza. And it was horrible.
Picture a combination of Paul Winter-ish new age, the worst traits of '80s synth-pop, and post-rock of the Tortoise school. Then, take a lot of psychedelics and convince yourself that you really are interested, and that you're not just saying that to impress the aging hippie you're trying to get in the sack. If what you look for in your music is a whole lot of self-delusion, just try to get into Tristeza. I dare you.
It's not as this band puts up so many barriers to entry that a gut reaction occurs, telling the listener to eject Dream Signals in Full Circles from the stereo before permanent brain damage occurs. No, they're far more subtle than that, using the age-old "first song doesn't suck nearly as much as everything else" bait-and-switch to paralyze the languid listener into an instant torpor. Once there, the suck is laid down like the bricks of a charnel house.
To Tristeza's credit, the production values here are so high that, at any moment, Windham Hill could ring them and invite them to a vegetarian lunch to discuss a contract. Everything's clean and well-played, with only the occasional buzzy bass lick reminding one that this isn't a bunch of session musicians dozing away in an L.A. studio.
The complete lack of melody is what keeps the chiming guitars and background synth pads from fully rising up from the subliminal level. You could at least hum the main/only motif of "Mogwai Fear Satan," but this is like mental doldrums orchestrated for two guitars, keys, bass, and drums. The dynamics, both of volume and timbrel change, are as absent as you were on Senior Skip Day. But you can't intentionally go to bed with Tristeza, as you'll actually wake up to the mindless repetition.
Dream Signals in Full Circles is Tristeza's second full-length album, and it's a goddamned Nancy Drew mystery to me how they've managed to appear on the covers of several small indie zines and accumulate a small following. But in the realm of independent music, virtually any band can establish their own fanbase. I don't know any of Tristeza's fans personally, but I do have a name for them: Children of the great Nothing-Something.
