For something so simple, the music of Philadelphia magician Tara Burke (aka Fursaxa) is remarkably distinctive. Her bag of tricks isn't exactly bulging-- she usually uses multi-tracked vocals wrapped in organ drones, acoustic guitar, and a light dusting of percussion. Yet the tone-hymns she spins from those basic elements are unmistakably her own. Burke expanded this alchemy to perfection on 2005's Lepidoptera, using atmospherics to weave songs and melodies to create environments.
On Alone in the Dark Wood, the fifth Fursaxa full-length, those atmospheres and environments dominate. There is less to latch onto in the way of structure or melody; where on Lepidoptera Burke developed ideas over long arcs, here she opts for smaller sketches (almost half of the tracks hover in the two-minute range)-- more like haiku than short stories. Yet her curling plumes still entrance, the musical equivalent of a hypnotist's watch swinging before your eyes.
True to its title, this album has the aura of a late-night hike in which ghosts seem to waft up from the misty ground. On "Lunaria Enters the Blue Lodge", a creaky organ melts into acoustic guitar strummed in cresting waves. "Bells of Capistrano" mixes monasterial chimes with flutes chirping like insects and birds, while the shimmering, Steve Reich-like "Clé Elum" resembles a sonic smoke signal coming from a far-off gamelan orchestra.
The best pieces on Alone don't evoke environments as much as they create sonic universes. On "Sheds Her Skin", Burke sounds like the ghost of Tiny Tim, offering delicate ukulele-like strums and warbling vocals akin to Yoko Ono's experiments. The a cappella "Nawne Ye" spawns a choir from Burke's chants, and "Alone in the Dark Wood" bewitches with detuned guitar and distant moans. Most mesmerizing is "In the Hollow Mink Shoal". Here, Burke's tentative vocals match the endearing hesitance of Vashti Bunyan, and lead deftly into a mind-locked acoustic séance.
That's all a lot to chew on, but the most impressive aspect of Alone in the Dark Wood is how Burke's layered vocals never grow stale. In so many songs, cycles of wordless purr recur nearly to the point of rote repetition. But like an endless chant that clears a meditator's mind, Burke's singing is more a portal than a pat device. And at its best, Fursaxa's music is a Zen koan, as mysteriously unsolvable as it is beautifully simple.
