Inevitably, there's some symbolism implied when an artist, after years of lurking behind a semi-obscure pseudonym-- head down, eyes averted, shoulders squeezed and high-- puts out a record under his common name. Former Third Eye Foundation principal Matt Elliott has spent most of his recording career as a modish UK hipster in a dark disguise: thus, the leap from "Third Eye Foundation" to "Matt Elliott" should involve a nice dose of lurid confessionalism, some newfound honesty, a running-around-naked-in-daylight reinvention of self. Right?
Hey, turn this car around! Someone left the personal catharsis at home! The Mess We Made, Matt Elliott's proper debut as Matt Elliott is, at least atmospherically, just as shadowed and sinister as his late, orchestral Third Eye work. Despite some significant tactical shifts and a deliberate creep away from jungle electronics, it's time to dig back into your Matt Elliott vocabulary sacks and whip out the perfunctory TEF adjectives: spectral, nightmarish, spare. Somehow, they all still apply.
Overarching artistic sensibilities endure, and name-altering is about as thematically relevant as changing your clothes. Technically, though, there are loads of notable switches here that indicate an immediate (if not sweeping) content transformation to accompany Elliott's bright new cover text. Mostly beat/percussionless, and sprinkled with muted, heavily layered vocals, The Mess We Made is full of peculiar, often-inaudible chants, lots of piano, horns, strings, chimes, and the vocal prowess of something called "The Drunk Ensemble of Chancelade".
Drunken choruses seem about right. The Mess We Made vehemently demands an appropriate context, and few scenarios seem more apt for this collection than the tired, dull inebriation of a throbbing post-drink comedown, when attempts at concise vocalization turn into gooey, muted singalongs. Unseen roars, sighs and echoes slip in with every pause. Disorientation abounds. Swallow, slip on this disc, and hope you remember where you live.
Opener "Let Us Break" is full of darting, near-operatic vocal swells that sound more like fully embodied church organs than human vocal cords; thick, muddled phrases push hard through an otherwise desolate void of piano and drone. Elliott may be going more organic now, but he hasn't lost a grip on his knob-and-keyboard bag of tricks: "Cotard's Syndrome" builds slowly, backwards synth lines and switched vocals openly encouraging stumbling, dribbling dementia. "Forty Days" starts vaguely medieval, with impressively picked classical guitars (sharp and wildly melodic), cello, and eventually, some rumbling drum fills. Nearly five minutes in, the song slips straight into a gaping hole, trading its rich, golden glow for a stark, percussive landscape.
Disturbing, complicated, and enthrallingly strange, The Mess We Made requires patience, and, ideally, an already established taste for Elliott's previous ambient output. For the uninitiated, this is a record that will open up more and more with each subsequent listen; it's like giving blinking eyes a chance to adjust to a dark room-- shapes emerge slowly, breaking up and coalescing as your vision adjusts, realigns, modifies. Schedule some time for this record's somber, protracted payoff, and loosen your grip on that stereo remote, friends: The Mess We Made is a gradual realization.
