Shoegaze is an isolating artform whose defining stylistic tropes have hardly shifted at all in the past 25 years from when it first bubbled up in the UK with bands like Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine, and Ride, to name the best. As such, the innovations have typically come from people like Brooklyn electronic noise artist Will Kraus, solo acts who reconstruct the long and lonely overtones through a non-guitar idiom. And while Path is one of the more intriguing entries into shoegaze of recent vintage, Kraus takes an unconventional approach to conventionality—he tries to make one person sound like a fully staffed rock band.
Kraus’ thin, prickly vocals are the only musical element that doesn’t sound like a synthesized version of the real thing, and they don’t mesh with the mix so much as get stuck in it like short-bristled comb trying to navigate a Tibetan Mastiff. But if the neon plasticity serves as a reminder that Kraus is going it alone, all the better. For a subgenre obsessed with pedalboard geekery, shoegaze is typically defined by standoffish, leather-clad chic or an obsession with burying “perfect pop” in static—timeless definitions of cool. Odds are if Kraus was a full-band operation, someone might’ve vetoed Path’s straight-up ’90s alt-rock feel, the most unique aspect of the album.
There’s an invigorating need coursing through Path that maybe honors Kraus’ adolescent obsession with Linkin Park, a crucial distinction in a genre that usually has a real problem with establishing stakes. The yearning is all in the rhythmic tics—the double-clutching muted chords, pulsing progressions that leave the major 7ths to drone for a few extra bars, and so about 70 percent of Path could be mistaken for the heaviest instrumental sections of Siamese Dream. Meanwhile, “Bum” collapses Hum’s “Stars” so every part is the one where the distortion pedals kick in. Kraus is a drummer by trade, and he also takes after the likes of Smashing Pumpkins’ Jimmy Chamberlin and Battles’ John Stanier, punk-jazz fusionists almost made their hulking bands almost funky at times; the booming intro of “Games” falls somewhere between the Big Pink and “Give It Away.”
The collating of arena-rock volume, nu-metal digital dreams, and bedroom-artist claustrophobia is a cool trick, enough to sustain Path for most of its 35 minutes even though it’s the only trick. But whether it happens on “Reach,” “Follow,” “See,” or any of the other functionally and forgettably titled songs, the general trajectory reveals why the album title isn’t plural. Nearly all begin with a reminder that this is one guy in Bushwick: the errant sound of a guitar plugging in, some lightly strummed chords, and a brief bit of yawning silence before it collapses in its own burnt-socket exhaust about three minutes later.
Path is bookended by two pieces where Kraus’ coos are enveloped by gritty, spun-sugar drones, but these wordless songs feel just as evocative as anything in between. The real outliers on Path are the songs that could be scoured for meaning if you’re the intrepid soul reading the lyrics sheet—“See” delivers a bedside elegy as a narcotized singsong (“She leaves on the TV/so it feels like you’re home”) and “Games” crossbreeds chillwave and Clintonian nostalgia by referencing a VHS recording of the “X Games” surrounded by Surge-guzzling guitar work that could’ve fit on its original soundtrack. Shoegaze doesn’t need ego, but Path shows it’s always better with personality.
