Even the lowest noises are overloaded with data. Birdsong can give explanations as to how and where it was noted; the grain of someone’s tone can demonstrate their emotional reaction. The quieter it is, the closer we hear them. Roman songwriter and author Félix Atkinson straps and undercuts stereotypes into our interpretations, producing unsettling noise areas that sit comfortably in front of the sound but reach towards a remote sky. Her music shields the brain’s desire for geographic stability and sets its standards for a cohesive standpoint, juxtaposing sounds, wisps of ambient sound, and electronically produced electronics that sail around the audio site in weird directions.
“Music is about mystery and reconciliation” Atkinson said in a recent interview that. “Music can transform things into a kind of code. Do you know languages, you can find this in poetry — the idea that sometimes meaning is not enough. You have to step back and look deeper than You intended to be in the experience.” Atkinson regularly exemplifies complex online ideas, records and viewpoints, and the most comforting thing to listen is to let go of whatever prejudices and engage with it second by second, taking it in as you would a scenery or a particularly vivid fantasy.
This unique urgency is a defining feature of Atkinson’s Image Langage. The music emerges slooooowly, slipping from a figure towards another, and it never really fits into a government of serenity. Notwithstanding surface-level patterns to the type of ambient music spoon-fed to loyalists of wellness programs and chill-out soundtracks, there are really common wrinkles that endure easy listening: her tone noted as the same close range it infringes on my sense of personal area; sparkles of nervous fixed; odd signals looping back and forth. For a piece of wistful song here’s a secretive information, as a site audio which only confirms itself upon close inspection, or a hidden synth voice waiting near the bottom of the combination. Presented with intense bonding, the unsettling features of Image Langage are as absorbing as its spiritual moonscape. Disturbing information that renders the tone of the text meaningful.
Much of Atkinson’s songs swirl quietly around, intentional verses the spoken writing noted at extremely close variety, where the voice of her tone is hooked in a government between intensity and disconnection. It remains a major element of Image Langage, but she complements it with an increasingly diverse iterator of device. Flickering bladder robots wrap her tone on the title track, and on the lineup “La Brume” a reverb-soaked music fast out of Angelo Badalamenti’s instrumentals develops from a covering of slipping synths. (Like Badalamenti, Atkinson is indeed focused on creating the impression from something secretive beneath the surface of her song.) Rich spread tones are the foundation for most songs, but they often provide a feeling of haunting, as on “Pieces of Sylvia” where a single note opens into the weeping confusion of an octave, diligently kept.
Ambiguity rules on Image Langage, notably in scenes like the beginning of “The Lake Is Speaking!” where Atkinson graphics the feel of birds chirping and things cracking with flashing online ring. The page between features and site audio has become distorted, confusing our mental image of the episode. Verses of pressure grow out of another album’s greatest mellow tones, She often lets temporary scenes stay, highlighting the power of in-betweenness. Seated with something in confusion makes a feeling of unmanifested, enabling the audience to correct their own behavior to create a listening /talking point. – Like a thick morning fog, the above song distorts the predicted scenery whereas giving a mysterious, lower clearly defined type of charm.
