Assuming the band signs off on its press materials, Night Mute is Ativin's "exploration into the themes of death, hopelessness and fear." Unfortunately, it sounds more like an exploration into an afternoon nap. Which is a shame: Before calling it quits in 1998, the bassless, mostly instrumental trio raised the bar for mysterious post-Slint math-rock, with gorgeous, swirly guitar interplay floating above ratatat drumming. 1996's Pills Vs. Planes EP and the 1999 full-length German Water were brooding, introspective and powerful, even during the whisper-quiet moments. Few bands were better at evoking despair and loneliness through bursts of distortion and mere hints of melody. It was the stuff to fire up philosophy grad students hunkering down for an existentialism all-nighter.
And then Ativin abruptly packed it in, their legacy secure, if obscure. When they returned four years later with the overly ambitious Interiors, the indie faithful were confused by its elaborate production. Strings? Electronics? Was that a bass guitar? This wasn't the lean, angular Ativin of old. Guitarists Dan Burton and Chris Carothers seemed to go overboard at the mixing board to compensate for the absence of founding drummer and musical linchpin Rory Leitch.
Now, on Night Mute, Ativin attempt to get back to their roots. Once again, the sound is spare and the range dynamic: Elastic guitars alternately duel and caress, transforming from hushed fuzz to explosive blasts and back again, while new drummer Mark Rice holds it all together admirably. Indeed, there's no mistaking it for Ativin. The problem is, I get the sense that their hearts just aren't in it. There's no punch. When Night Mute strives for mystery, it comes out overwrought; when it goes for dreamy, it comes off sleepy.
"Blood" exemplifies the album's wasted potential, kicking off with an almost doom-metal riff, then softening and repeating itself over the pound of building drums. But just as the dark mood begins to take hold, the song comes to an anticlimactic end. Similarly, "Endless" is two minutes of pointless, crackly guitar feedback with no sign of actual melody or effort.
There are flashes of pre-split Ativin here, particularly on the somber cover of Love & Rockets' "The Game", in which Burton quietly murmurs repetitive lyrics while the guitars work a refreshing quiet/loud/quiet dynamic to the hilt. But oddly enough, the record's best moment comes with its nameless hidden track, an (almost) downright pretty tune, with flowing guitars that flirt with a haunting melody.
Unfortunately, nothing here shakes the overwhelming sense that Ativin are just going through the motions these days. The sense of urgency that made their earlier work so strong-- that certain something separating the humdrum from the Holy Crap-- is gone, and in its wake is a band that sounds, in even their best moments, tired, lethargic, and frankly, bored to tears.
