by Michael Tau

Dust Wind Tales' inaugural release was a particularly auspicious project – his largest yet – and one which I am extremely pleased to have gotten my claws on. Encased in brown paper and twine, it was a glorious two-disc compilation featuring contributions from an exhaustive medley of home-recorded artists and bands. Lo-fi compilations can be hit-or-miss, but “The Dusty Tales” was exactly what one craves from such an underground enterprise – a multifarious collection of obscure bedroom projects I had never heard of, several of whom completely blew me away. You may have noticed that I'm speaking in the past tense; unfortunately, “The Dusty Tales” was limited to an cumbersome 110 copies, and as Stephen puts it, is now “long gone.” A shame, that, but fortunately the DWT label has a splendid selection of other efforts on tap. Be sure to keep your eyes peeled (and Paypal trigger-finger braced) for anything by The End Springs, Stephen's own project, which is responsible for some really great instrumental guitar folk, inspired by the likes of John Fahey and Robbie Basho. Also terrific is the label's three-inch CDR from Guanaco aka Lex Panayi, who keeps a low profile but has proven to be a terrific hypnotic psych-drone orchestrator, influenced by the likes of Birchville Cat Motel and Emeralds. This stuff is made for midnight trips through the woods; just remember to charge your iPod, or Walkman...

On the topic of drone, one of DWT's recent mini-CDRs is Mark Bradley's “Shimmer,” a resplendent ambient snippet limited to an edition of 40. I don't know much about Bradley, although he's proven to be an extensively industrious newcomer to the experimental scene, with droves of releases listed on the noise almanac that is Discogs. He's put out CDRs on a cornucopia of DIY labels, though information specifically about him, or any means to contact him, is frustratingly sparse (his Myspace page offers little more than sound samples and reviews of his releases). Between “Shimmer” and his terrific split on Idrone with Wereju, I'm convinced of his talent for deep meditative drone, but I'm having trouble learning much about him. I know his name, at least, though the fact that he shares it with an NFL wide receiver, a flash-in-the-pan MLB outfielder, and a well-decorated former Air Force general makes it difficult to hunt for facts. Still, his hypnotic, ethereal soundscapes make for perfect stargazing music, all airy and inviting, beckoning the listener to get lost in their manifold layers.

Bradley's music got me thinking about why I listen to drone music. It occurs to me that the listener has a different relationship with drone than she does with other forms of music. The joy of drone comes from an appreciation of timbre and ambiance; compositions frequently in excess of ten minutes bear relatively consistent atmospheres throughout, meaning that a certain track might express sorrow, or joy, or something altogether different, but rarely does a particular piece significantly evolve or change its mood while in progress. Since everything is so slow-moving, the genre itself can be a testing one for the audience. Devoid of melody and rhythm, those eroding hallmarks of contemporary music, there's little to latch onto in a conventional sense. Nonetheless, certain works of drone are more hypnotic and enrapturing than any three minute pop song, perhaps because they are able to conjure up moods, fantasies, and emotions so singularly.

Recently, upon first exposure to Nicholas Szczepanik's “The Chiasmus,” I was struck by the mechano-dystopian aura that its third track evoked in me. It brought to mind the modernist alienation of Lang's Metropolis and Lynch's Eraserhead, at once claustrophobic, detached, and oddly attractive. All this in a sixteen minute composition which, though layered with field recordings and a tenebrous, hollow whir, has few defining features. Neither then, nor now, could I listen to Szczepanik's piece and assuredly tell you whether I had heard it before or not. But this brings us to another earmark of the more devout forms of drone, that it is an experiential genre - it draws you in while it is alive and being played, but it doesn't snag you as would a timely melody or lyrical hook. Many drone compositions are flatly interchangeable, even indistinguishable, although there are certainly those which are better than others (something I might explore another time). Perhaps this homogeneity is partly because, owing to the genre's relatively confining description, drone's works don't have far to stray from one another, the timbres and moods overlapping due to a finite number of permutations. Yet this realization should not be seen as a discredit to the artists themselves. Perhaps drone artists are simply channeling a more general musical dogma, a zeitgeist that has its roots in early ambient music but has since evolved into a diverse, spiritual scene unto itself. Drone music, being a ritualistic experience, entrances its audience as well as its orchestrator, and its thrill derives from the mesmeric impression it evokes in both. Each composition itself need not be wildly distinct to be satisfying.

So, to return to the initial question – as to why I listen to drone music – I feel as though I've largely skirted the question, and I'm not sure I can provide a satisfying or definitive answer. The pleasure of participating in a ritual of sorts, of evoking mood and feeling in a challenging yet unique way, plays an integral part. As does the fact that I can listen to it while reading, or writing, or lying in bed. And, of course, dispersed in Lilliputian editions on CDR, cassette, and vinyl, drone releases are utterly collectible. All of these reasons figure into my obsession with drone. And there's also the fact that it baffles and antagonizes my oft-visiting next door neighbour, which is always a plus. Either way, drone music, in its pure form as well as all its ephemeral manifestations, is still a young genre, and has yet to complete its complete its journey of self-discovery. We'll see what happens.