FRANKENIXON - AMORPHOUS

From antique mantles in centuries-old houses to cracked and yellowed porcelain dolls, this world is filled with beautifully broken things. And I’d like to think that Frankenixon’s latest album is one musical translation of that alluring disrepair. Amorphous is a 50-minute trek into a frayed pinwheel of sound that lives up to its namesake, weaving a world that lacks definite form.
From the very beginning, we’re enveloped and dragged down by the unsteady waters of Evelyn Finch’s eerie vocals. And as they take us deeper into the brine, we’re tossed about by the lurching piano currents and the undertow of drums. We lose track of what’s up or down, somewhere in the ebb and flow of the guitar and minimal orchestration. From a slow, methodical tide that’s gently creeping ashore, to a cacophony of waves hammering the docks, the classically violent assortment of instruments shifts form and attitude with a drunken, whip-smart sort of non-precision.
And the vocals are there... a harmless whisper one minute; piercing, unbridled agony the next. Seething with naked emotion, Finch’s voice is captaining the confusion the whole time. It braves Amorphous through murky bays of mood that bring to mind the darker works of PJ Harvey. And it even manages to sail gracefully through carnival isles that border Tom Waits’ The Black Rider. But as close as it comes to others, this album forms a schooner of its own, snapped-keel vocals, broken-mast instruments and all.