How much the second volume of guitarist Loren Connors' The Departing of a Dream differs from the first depends a lot on how closely you want to listen. On the surface, Vol. II is very much of a piece with its predecessor, characterized by its by vast, quiet spaces, unhurried compositions, and an overall sense of dread and despair. The instrumental makeup is pretty much identical-- Connors is credited with guitars, tapes and sounds-- and Volume II seems very much like a continuation. But the details and proportions here have been shuffled, and if you get down and listen closely enough, this a different kind of record.
The first thing you'll notice is that Connors spends a bit more time here on the "tapes" and "sounds" and a bit less on the guitar. Field recordings form the essential character of many tracks. The third track (no titles) has only a strum or two of guitar and mostly consists of what sounds like a recording of an abandoned field along the side of a busy highway. You can hear the wind through the long grass and the hum of traffic a little ways away, and can almost see the decade-old rusted cans and yellow newspaper scraps tangled in the scrubby underbrush. It's quite an evocative piece considering it was probably recorded on a random afternoon on a Walkman.
The sixth track was recorded a bit further into the wilderness, across the woods and into the forest, and this time, at dawn, complete with a cooing mourning dove. The first track has a similarly rich ambient layer with a more industrial bent, but quiet and in the distance. And over the noise Connors layers his plucked, sustained, carefully laid notes.
On the tracks without field recordings Departing of a Dream feels familiar. A melody tumbles from Connors' hands with hints of processing and wah-wah to make a tone that bubbles up from some waterlogged dream. Once again, Connors is a master of slow instrumental heartbreak, and if you're in the wrong mood, this record can actually be painful to listen to. The seventh track, for example, is a slow pan across a bombed-out landscape of emotional devastation, all gurgly tone, bent notes, and shapeless melody.
The shorter eighth track, which closes this brief (31-minute) album, has a warmer, sunnier cast, which somehow makes things even worse. The suggestion of hope and renewal seems like a prelude to another shattering reality somewhere in the blurry future. If you're sad and anxious you have a friend in Loren Connors.
