joseph edward yonker / pasture / willamette

It’s been remarked time and time again that most music that could reasonably termed “ambient” (or “drone,” these two descriptors/genres having fast-become synonymous) tends to discourage critical incision and instead inspires a looser, warmer, and heavily anecdotal style of music writing. From Stars of the Lid, to Eno, to Cage, musicians dabbling in these twin frameworks inspire more adjectival acrobatics, extended metaphors, and glances back at youthful romance, rambling, and up-on-the-roof spliff-puffing than any other, and I’ve many times been caught in this snare. (Hell, I’m guilty of all of the above regardless of the music in question.) Diminished Composition, the great new record from Tulsa trio Willamette, is no doubt bending me back towards such inclinations (albeit in an unusual, astonishing way).

One traditional line of thought proffers that the search for meaning in music is a fool’s errand; that, unable to represent anything extraneous to itself, the art form is a sign turned inward. And further: though we might think we sense sentiment embedded in fluttering arpeggios and synthesizer swells, music’s only ties to emotion lie in its ability to evoke the dynamics of feelings through movement. A violin sighs in slow release, and we’re indirectly led towards memories of catharsis; drums skitter like nervous fingers, and past episodes of frenzy and mania come bubbling up. Is it fair to say, then, that ambient-leaning material, in all its structural blurring and soft-focus melodics, leaves the brain more poised for emotive and mnemonic free-association, strapped for the signposts offered by more distinct (or, let’s say, detectable) musical syntax?