Credit *This Is Gap Dream for truth in advertising: it never lets you forget that Gap Dream is a one-man-band in his mid-30s living in a vinyl warehouse. 2013’s Shine Your Light *didn’t either, although it documented Gabe Fulvimar uprooting his life in Ohio to move into Fullerton’s Burger Records. Three years later, *This Is Gap Dream *has an understandably more morose tone; “fuck it” has become “what the fuck have I done?” There might not be as much tolerance for this specific kind of existential crisis in 2016, but it can still result in compelling art—*This Is Gap Dream *might strive to be considered with *The Meadowlands**, Local H’s As Good As Dead, or Fred Thomas’ All Are Saved, *where the depiction of music nerds and their midlife meltdowns can be perversely cathartic and universal due to their unflinching honesty. But *This Is Gap Dream *ends up being *too *truthful, as there’s rarely any indication Fulvimar intended for this to reach an audience far beyond himself.
Though he hits most of the “guy who lives in Burger Records” touchstones—junk-littered garage rock, rudimentary synth-pop, no-budget prog flourishes—the core of most Gap Dream songs is mid-tempo, palm-muted guitar chug. Fulvimar plays every instrument himself, most of which are typically found on demos meant to be fleshed out by an actual band or at least equipment of higher quality—rickety drum machines, guitars textured with granulated distortion, Nintendo samples, his own mutter of a voice. Despite living in a stronghold for rip-roaring rock, Fulvimar appears to be a conscientious neighbor above all.
Then again, *This Is Gap Dream *has an overt hostility towards most forms of *loud *guitar music. “Rock and Roll” quotes Led Zeppelin while imitating the disquieting synth-bounce of later Suicide, while Fulvimar whispers “death rock” repeatedly during the end of “153,” itself trying to one-up the leanness of Wire’s *154**. *He doesn’t have much patience for “artier” indie rock either, as “College Music” moans of “too many soft machines” and snipes at them to “get off your brainwashed ass.”
Fulvimar doesn’t get much relief from lashing out, which is probably the whole point: Shine Your* Light *was borne of his many disappointments with human interaction, but now he can’t even take solace in music. This abject cynicism inevitably becomes suffocating rather than illuminating; despite Fulvimar only having to answer to himself, *This Is Gap Dream *trudges along questioning its own necessity to exist. Are the off-key harmonies meant to *mock *the idea of professionally composed rock music or was there just no motivation for an additional take? These are full-band arrangements, yet the bass often has only a vague familiarity with the prevailing rhythm, so does he really mean for this to sound like a band? Other times the bass completely overwhelms Fulvimar’s vocals; does he believe he has nothing worth hearing or does he believe it really wouldn’t matter anyway? Are the aimless instrumentals included because Fulvimar believes they speak for themselves, or did he just not feel like putting a melody over them?
There might be an answer to all of the above during “24 Hour Token": “This is for the world that I can’t ignore,” Fulvimar sighs, “the one that screams for more.” Once again, maybe the codependency between the low stakes and Fulvimar’s lack of ambition is the whole point of This Is Gap Dream: it’s pretty convincing if the dominant feeling of an existential crisis is wanting nothing more than to just not be bothered.
