With all his experience as a player and knowledge as a listener, Sir Richard Bishop can sometimes sound as much like a DJ as a guitarist. It's like his mind is a library of worn-out LPs, crackly field recordings, rare books in many languages, and found footage of a hidden global underground. And he turns those inspirations into songs as effortlessly as he might pull a record from a shelf. 2007's Polytheistic Fragments is the best example of this catalog-surfing mode, and while Intermezzo, orginally self-released as a CD-R last year, isn't quite as sharp, it's even more rangy. If you stumbled on it playing interrupted on a late night WFMU show, you might not guess it's all by the same artist.
But you probably would. Because for as much time and effort as Bishop has devoted to his own personal history of creative subculture, he's matched that with his dedication to creating a recognizable guitar approach. Even in his most disparate work, there are so many common traits that it would be hard to list them all. The one that frequently stands out for me on Intermezzo is his monk-like patience. Every tune has a calm center-- a distinct lack of rush or nervousness-- that makes direction more compelling than details. As a result, even peppier elements like the African-tinted rhythm of "Dance of the Cedars", the Chet Atkins swing of "Hump Tulip", and the cascading chords of "Dust & Spurs" feel serene.
Such patience earns patience from the listener in return, which is why I've come around on "Inner Redoubt", Intermezzo's 15-minute centerpiece. The first couple of times I listened, I skipped to the next track after a few minutes, assuming I had heard all I needed to of Bishop's slow plucks and strums. I wasn't really wrong-- that's all the piece is made of, and at first it feels like an endless warm-up in search of an elusive starting line. But stick around for closer listens, and things open up. Small shifts and subtle turns get bigger and bolder as time stretches. The key is the way Bishop stays calm, injecting each note with a purpose that deserves to be absorbed rather than glossed over. That's true of the equally-hypnotic "Cranial Tap", though it's a third as long-- its pin-prick guitar sounds repetitive initially, but increasingly rich and textured once you've really dug in.
The pleasures of Bishop's music can be immediate, too. For me what hits quickest yet lasts longest are his more wistful, sentimental tunes. There's the Windham Hill-esque reflection of "Molasses", or on the other end of the mood spectrum, the chilling echo of "Dhumavati". But nothing quite matches the rising beauty of closer "Khajuraho", an Eastern-inflected mix of guitar wisps, creaking drone, and hovering, flute-like tones. There's creative thunder brewing inside this gem, yet it radiates the patience of a sunrise. Maybe that's the best way to think of Sir Richard Bishop's music-- as the calm not before the storm, but during it.
