Deastro's Randolph Chabot is just barely of legal drinking age, but he already has seven releases to his name. Sometimes Chabot's synth-heavy electro-pop project has a full band, sometimes it's just him alone. His latest, Mind Altar, was originally an eight-song cassette offered for download on Deastro's blog; here on this digital-only release, it's been fortified with three bonus tracks from another one of Chabot's blog-only EPs, Orange Swimmer Red Summer. Though Chabot insists that Mind Altar isn't "the new face of Deastro," something has changed since Moondagger, last year's full-band LP. Where Moondagger was a no-apologies effort to draw Deastro's aesthetic out of the bedroom, Deastro now seems intent on working in the smaller, more intimate space occupied by an ever-expanding crop of chillwave acts.
Mind Altar is covered in a dank lo-fi buzz, a familiar production technique that adds a pinch of mystery to an otherwise tuneful batch of electro-pop songs. By throwing heavy delay on his vocals and employing a number of dreamy, nostalgic touches, Chabot finds himself in the company of acts like Toro Y Moi. But as potentially derivative as this might sound, the clever beats and wind-swept lushness help save Deastro from looking like the next guy to tumble down some trendy rabbit hole.
The songs vary in slight but interesting ways, indulging in spaced-out, ambient collisions one moment ("The Concept of Land Ownership") and laying down propulsive, hallucinogenic hook-driven material the next ("Mind Altar", "Get Frostied"). Held over from Moondagger is Chabot's growing affinity for the sound of live instrumentation, like the maddening Motor City bass line on "Pastor Kid Redux Edition" or the percussion on "Get Frostied". Sometimes, Chabot does get a bit carried away with it all, overstuffing these songs with too many sounds and ideas that it's hard to not feel a little confused. But maybe confusion is the idea, like on the cassette-closing "World of Shadow", where everything from hyperactive acoustic guitar strums, circling electronic plinks, and seagull squawks all collide with a dizzy satisfaction. When the ideas are flowing, Chabot's maximalist compulsions are justified.
