Wraetlic is the new alias of Alex Menzies, or Alex Smoke, the Scottish producer whose albums have long toed the line for between the dance floor and the psychiatrist's couch. Sunken and downcast, Menzies uses his voice to add a measure of introspection to his pattering, tricky machine music. Wraetlic (Anglo Saxon for "wraith-like") finds Smoke on Convex Industries, a young label that last year saw its proprietor, Jon Convex, release Idoru, an electro album that shares much with Smoke's work. On Wraetlic, Menzies dispenses with any notion of body music in favor of stirring, sour tracks that, somewhat awkwardly, function as songs.
Menzies' last album, Lux, employed the producer's voice as well, but it did so in an abstract manner, peppering tracks indebted to Warp Records' 1990s output. Wraetlic places Menzies' altered voice in the foreground, circling garbled phrases and lingering around melodies. Digitally processed until it slurs and curdles, the voice hovers above the album's minor-key ripples, inescapable and constant. It is the album's binding force. Imagine the Knife's Karin Dreijer Andersson, or Thom Yorke's most abstract moments, but less dramatic than either. The slurry of effects settles over Menzies' busy compositions, an intriguing blend of precision and obscurity. The effect masks many of Menzies' specific utterances, but the album's tenor-- which steers between surly and mopey-- provides enough clues.
When his syllables blend just so, Menzies is capable of a modern, attractive fatigue: the whirring current of "PintleGrist", for instance, sounds like the National processed through a ring modulator. Perhaps it is more than mere fatigue. Menzies admitted, via email, that some of the songs were born out of a breakup and the passing of friends. Menzies' voice is an instrument, except when it's not.
More often, this effect is wearying. For an album preoccupied with dissatisfaction and sadness, one that cloaks its compositions in minor keys and the hard surfaces of techno and electro, Wraetlic isn't dissonant or discontent. There is plenty of implied pathos, and little fire: this is the sound of drum machines wallowing, of synths complaining. Smoke's unique vocal effect is partly to blame, making the songs seem slower and longer than they actually are.
Better pacing might have helped. In the album's back half, Menzies dials up a couple of legit bangers, fragments his cloudy vocals, and offers the miasma that pervades Wraetlic something to chafe against. There's friction and a sense of urgency. These bolder tracks also remind what a tidy, talented producer Menzies is. Give "The Dearth" and "Rats" a subwoofer and some room to breathe and Wraetlic accrues a hard-won vitality. (Remixes by Convex and dBridge scatter Menzies' voice, proving it an appealing sonic artifact.)
Wraetlic's headspace is a simple one to sink into. It's easy, fun even, to be obtusely bummed for Wraetlic's 50-minute run. At its best, the album offers an outlet for this sadness and negativity; too often it merely reflects it. There's room for Smoke to grow into this new guise, but Wraetlic is too satisfied with its own dissatisfaction to serve as anything more than comfort food for those predisposed to melancholia.
