Imagine, if you will, a bright and sunny day. Not too warm, now; just right. The breeze is perfect, not too strong, yet with enough of a presence to remind you that you're alive as it brushes across your face. It's a perfect day. An acharacteristically pleasant day in a usually gloomy part of the year. And no matter how cynical you may be, you can't restrain the first hints of a smile creeping across your face as you head home, where your girlfriend waits, cooking you dinner. Your favorite dinner, at that.
When you walk through the door, you can tell from the look on her face that something is wrong. She says nothing-- just meets you with a grim stare-- then turns her gaze to the answering machine across the room. Without a word, your eyes meet its persistent blinking. You cross the room, press the button. It's a message from your doctor. He asks you if you remember the routine tests he did the last time you visited the office. He says that something's come up. Something's not right. You don't even wait for the message to end. You call him up, your heartrate pacing, there's sweat on your brow. Your awareness of the world around you has suddenly vanished.
When you resurface, it's harboring the news that something is horribly wrong indeed. Chronically wrong. You've now got anywhere between a month to twenty years left to live. There's really no way to tell when, but you are definitely going to die. Across the room, she stares at you. Your eyes meet hers. No words are exchanged. She cries; you say nothing. Your eyes fall to the ground as you drag your feet out the door again.
Outside, it's still a gorgeous day-- the sun still hits your skin just right, the birds still sing the same as before. And yet, suddenly the whole world is different. Everything is ominous where before there was only beauty. Everything from the sound of traffic to the cock-headed gaze of your neighbor's dog has become a harbinger of your imminent doom. Nothing's actually changed about the world. Except your perception of it.
This is what the music of the ambient trio Codec Scovill is like. It's comprised of subtle little changes that occur in the midst of long, beautiful, repetitious segments. Little, ominous changes. The kind that turn the world on its side. The kind that can turn a perfect day into the worst. When the album begins, it does so peacefully. Four tones are layered upon each other repeatedly, allowed to float around, to vibrate and harmonize in empty space. But soon, effects and feedback build up, and the anxiety sets in.
Like most ambient music, Clinical Imperfections doesn't change much. There are lots of long tones here. They start out quiet and they build. They have some particular destination in mind, but rather than reaching it, they meet up with other tones halfway there. And they'll disappear only to return later and repeat the process. But while the sounds themselves rarely change, the context in which they are presented does. When five-to-ten minutes of signal-routed tones are interrupted by anything-- be it a minimal beat and fidgety static ("Alpine"), or a jarring wash of feedback ("Hohner 36"), it's hard to listen the same way when the tones return. Jarred from the peaceful introspection often induced by ambient music, the listener is now forced into an uneasy awareness, intimidated into paying attention.
This inherent paranoia is nourished later by beautiful yet chilling tracks like "Traipsing," where a faint ghostly melody lingers like the memory of a deceased family member that will not pass, at once disturbing in its insistence and reassuring in its familiarity. But familiarity is not always a good thing. If there's one fault to be found with Clinical Imperfections, it's that bands like Nurse with Wound and SPK have covered similar territory to better effect. Still, Clinical Imperfections is well-executed: ambient music twisted into something alarming by the right interjection at the right moment.
