Absolutely Free

If exploration and advancement in the past was about the conquering of physical frontiers, the staking of territorial terrain (and the erasure of existing entities) and the utopian dreams and wishes of the future-forecasting science-fiction writers one of outer-space and to go ‘boldly where no man has gone before’ then the ultimate frontier to be navigated must be that of inner-space.

In a seemingly connected (yet ever more remotely disconnected and dystopian) world dominated by time-space ad infinitum sucking techno-gadgetry, cavernous echo-chambers and cocooning filter-bubbles that eat, erode and corrode the soul, spirit and sense of self to the point of seduction-reduction, the temptation to retreat inwards, go deep down into the recesses of existence grows more and more tantalising.

Another artistic dilemma is how do, can we, proceed forwards in a cultural sphere where everything appears, feels and seems ‘post’, over, done, all that was once solid now melted into fibre-optic air, unsettled to the point of perma-archival access, decontextualized referents rehashed for reconsumption.

After a seven-year hibernation Torontonian trio Absolutely Free (Matt King (vocals/multi-instrumentalist), Michael Claxton (bass/synth), and Moshe Fisher-Rozenberg (drums/synth attempt to (and succeed) address and resolve these concerns on sublime second album ‘Aftertouch’, gloriously produced by Jorge Elbrecht.

Recalling at times the laidback candour of post-Syd Pink Floyd (‘Remaining Light’; ‘Morning Sun’), Air’s Euro-paean charm on/off-pensiveness and Midlake’s dreamy Americana, the result is this space-rock odyssey, catatonic sonics, cataclysmic cosmic-pop, eight out-there (in-here) tracks of calm-anguish, languid, sanguine songs.

Extant since 2012, the band arose from the now -extinct experimental rock outfit DD/MM/YYYY. However, the insatiable quest to probe, prod and penetrate remains prominent. Opener ‘Epilogue (After Touch)’ begins with a Suicide-all pulsating electronic-throb before breaking through with King’s delicate, dolorous, near-distant delivery.

Bookended by ‘Morning Sun’ the meta-narrative is one of a wooing, cooing call to the magical dream-state betwixt the subconscious slumber-realm. The submerged, ‘real’ selves that lurk latently awaiting their green light.

‘How to paint clouds’ is essential existentialism, (sup)posing the philosophical conundrum, who defines and outlines the frames of perception and perspective, channelled and corralled choices control our passages through, within and without, subjectivity versus objectivity, who are the gatekeepers intent on keeping out what greater truths lay behind. A case of ‘art for art’s sake’ or for heart’s ache?

On ‘Interface’ the group identify and articulate the reptilian rigmaroles and routines of daily actions, reactions, (re)creations subtly (d)riven by (un)conscious mediated, premeditated, manipulated mechanisms. To be ‘absolutely free’ a break from these structured strictures is paramount.

Ladies and gentleman, we are coasting in space. Look up and around, feel the sound, touch the ground.

Remember, in cyber-space, everyone can hear you scream, but no one’s listening.