The chief talking point that emerged from Laurel Halo's excellent debut album, Quarantine, was Halo's decision to emphasize her vocals. It seemed a hard left turn for an artist who, through a spate of EPs, had practiced obfuscation, both in her music and in her public persona. Halo's releases since Quarantine can be read as a reaction to that album and its reception, as she has steadily retreated from that album's vocally oriented post-pop—and the transparent artistic agency that it implied—into the harsh instrumental strictures of techno. Her second album, the dynamic, bracing Chance of Rain, continues this transition, further mussing her artistic motives via industrial rhythms and corrosive synth textures.
The music on Chance of Rain defies easy placement—probably on purpose. It flickers between 90s-era IDM fussiness, warped hypnagogic sentimentality, and actual club music meant to inspire dancing. Sometimes it stops, mid-song—as on the title track—to wade through a pretty, jazzy piano melody, only to later return to its choppy, crunching kick drum attacks. This sense of placelessness, its ability to obscure its purpose and cloak its creator, defines Chance of Rain. It's a Laurel Halo album in name; when it plays you don't spend much time thinking about its creator or her motives.
Two pretty, jazzy piano pieces bookend Chance of Rain, reminding us of the oft-repeated fact that Halo is a formally trained musician. In between, Chance of Rain is a near constant churn of effects and shifting rhythms, frequently interrupting itself to wander in new directions. The longer tracks—"Oneiroi" and "Thrax" in particular—are stop-and-start affairs whose tough beats resist momentum. There's a crankiness to Chance of Rain, as noxious, cloudy chords hover above even the most motive tracks ("Ainnome", "Serendip"). Tonally, Chance of Rain is peers with the hoary machine music being churned out by the L.I.E.S. label, but there's an odd iridescence to Halo's work not found in other noisy, underground dance music.
When Chance of Rain slows down, as on the perplexing "Still/Dromos" or "Melt", it feels industrial, chemical in its potency. There's an undiluted quality to the sounds Halo conjures, and its 44 minute runtime requires some endurance. Frequently ugly, Chance of Rain doesn't court affection, and it's hard to nestle up to something that's continually slew-footing you. Quarantine was a difficult listen because it sounded as if Halo was right in your ear; on Chance of Rain she only appears to chop at your knees before dashing back into the shadows.
Halo spoke to Wire magazine about becoming more comfortable as a producer; Chance of Rain sees her place her gnarly sounds front and center, the way Quarantine did with her voice. The result is still unnerving, though in a more subtle way (no one is likely to tell Halo her synthesizers are too loud, or not tuneful enough). When the album finds a moment of peace—like when the title track dissolves into a simple, noir-ish outro—it feels forged. Craggy and hard as hell, you'll wish Chance of Rain forged a few more such moments, but its consistent, nagging ability to knock you off balance is worth wrestling with.
