Voices on Eli Keszler’s latest self-titled record are rarely plainspoken. It begins with a gasp, and gives way to words whispered, uttered and beamed from another place.
The composer and percussionist doesn’t so much centre vocals on this album – whether they’re his own, his collaborators’, or of undefined origin – as he does allow them to mill about and live in the gaps in these songs’ walls. That can be a comfort and a jump scare.
The album is unmistakably indebted to the imagination and soundscapes of David Lynch and Angelo Badalamenti. The sultry Sofie Royer-sung numbers open the curtain to the red room of Twin Peaks, while the jittery, noirish avant-jazz elsewhere conjures the unseen extended lineup…