Sometimes, noise comes from quiet: Islet recorded their homophonically titled album at home in the tranquil hills of Powys in mid-Wales, one of Britain’s least populous regions, a haven from which modern society only pokes it’s head through the membrane if invited in.
The result of this self imposed lockdown is a record which is inspired both by it’s natural backdrop but equally by the leftfield noir of Broadcast and Stereolab, mired in dream-like electronica and filled with apparitions from the region’s past.
If this all sounds like a contemporised soundtrack to an episode of sixties TV show The Prisoner, Eyelet is still cued sufficiently into other mind states than paranoia; opener Caterpillar and Moon are both essays in shimmering dream pop, whilst the mellifluos Geese is the sort of innocent lo-fi sketch you could watch the sunrise at Anglesey to.
Setting yourself apart can expose or inspire the depths of an artist’s conscious: Eyelet is more however than just a set of ideas, it’s a fully realised journey that takes the true concept of folk music as a medium and plugs it into new forms. It’s a broken silence you should hear.
You can read the full review here.
The Voice Of Unreason 