Since 2003's Mount Eerie LP, Phil Elverum has kept a relatively low profile, yet remained busy. He's toured a fair deal, worked extensively with his label, P.W. Elverum & Sun, retired and later exhumed the Microphones moniker, dropped a couple of LPs and scattered releases as Mount Eerie, and smuggled an extra "e" into his given name. (He's credited on Mount Eerie and earlier albums as "Phil Elvrum"; note that "verum" means "truth" in Latin.) And now, four years after Mount Eerie, he returns with this self-professed sequel: Two additional chapters (or are they epilogues?) to the saga laid out on Mount Eerie, pressed onto a 10" picture disc and tucked between the pages of a massive, 132-page photobook.
Mount Eerie represented a seemingly complete cycle-- birth/creation on part 1, "The Sun", death on part 4, "Mt. Eerie", and an afterlife of sorts on part 5. So...what comes after the afterlife? A few guitar and organ drones into Pts. 6 & 7's first track (of four, all unlabeled), Elverum's opening line gives us an idea: "Waking up in the known world/ There's something that's left over," he declares with his vulnerable quaver. Where Mount Eerie's closing track seemed to offer resolution, doubt and ambiguity have again crept in here. "The light that does get in is unconvincing," intones Elverum.
The galloping, piano-accented groove on the second track would seem to suggest decisiveness, but that soon dissolves into the lonesome sound of rain upon a tin roof. Even when the fourth track-- with its heavenly choir, thundering drums, and firmament-penetrating organ,--presents itself as some grand, conclusive statement, Elverum isn't so sure. Clouds break only to reveal other clouds, and rather than fade out, the chorus swells to a precipice and drops off fairly abruptly. "Mount Eerie revealed, in the breaking of clouds/ And then gone again," he laments. His apparent new mantra, more mature if less satisfying: Clarity comes and goes, and all we can be certain of is uncertainty.
Ah, but the book? The photographs, all taken with antique cameras on expired film, are given large-format full pages upon which to breathe, and they're not constricted by borders, captions, or even page numbers. Indeed, the book's interior is entirely void of text; the title and other essential info appear only on the tome's spine, which is covered by a dust jacket, blank save for the words "Mount Eerie". (Those who've held the UK edition of Cocteau Twins' Lullabies to Violaine collection will recognize the jacket's odd, mossy paper stock.)
The photos primarily address the natural world-- one vista even gets a three-page centerfold-- creating an overall feel of detachment, isolation, and, yes, eeriness. Even when figures do show up (most often Elverum himself), they're double-exposed, strangely lit, or out of focus, made to look like ghosts. A webpage created as a "supplement" to the book offers descriptions and recollections alongside thumbnail reproductions of the photographs. (The irony that a book celebrating the natural world must draw blood from it in order to be made is not lost on Elverum, and in an effort to account for it, he hooked up with an eco-friendly, highly-regarded printer based out of British Columbia to bring his vision to life-- 20 full grown trees saved, boasts his website).
At a time when indie artists are increasingly diversifying their assets, embracing commercial work, soundtracks, and network television, Pts. 6 & 7-- an extravagantly priced book/vinyl combo-- feels like a defiantly anachronistic gesture. But at what cost to fans? The book carries a hefty price tag. Still, it's difficult not to admire Elverum's ambition, and the romantics out there may delight in imagining that somebody out there is going to work a few extra shifts at Kinko's-- and forego buying some six CDs (or, better yet, 60 mp3s)-- just to take this thing home, to hold it in his/her hands, and, above all, to cherish it. After all, you can't very well cherish mp3s.
