Film School - Brilliant Career (2001) ☠

Country: U.S.A.

Genre: Shoegaze

Label Number: MT-05

.FLAC via Florenfile

.AAC 256 kbps via Florenfile

☠: Selected by Lass

© 2001 Me Too! Records

Brilliant Career Review by Stanton Swihart

If you're not careful, Brilliant Career could soothe you into sleep. That would be an unfortunate effect, though, because the album deserves the most intimate sort of inspection. The music is moody and plaintive, full of swells of somnolence that lap against your ears. It's almost as if the band tried to interpret what emptiness might sound like if it had a voice. The album is the brainchild of guitarist and keyboard player Krayg Burton and is built around his freeform, zoned-out songwriting, which owes as much to My Bloody Valentine as it does to indie rock strum-and-mumble bands. But instead of splintered, fragmented environments, Film School -- a revolving door project that numbers Kyle Statham and Scott Kannberg among its visitors -- searches for the subtlest type of panoramic wall to carry its songs. The songs sometimes come off as if Stephen Malkmus had tried rewriting the Pink Floyd songbook -- and if those Brits, in turn, were arty, bangs-over-the-eyes shoegazers instead of stoners with something on their mind. "A Taste of Dust," however, moves closer to the most ominously atmospheric moments of the Doors, turning fried snare and cymbal beats, noodly guitar, and Burton's barely there singing into a doped-up musical backdrop that is almost sexual. Suitably, Brilliant Career was recorded partly in Burton's bedroom, contributing no doubt to its shy, reclusive nature. Even when it does break out into something a bit more aggressive (such as "Ume's Lament" or "Manville, CA"), the music is never chaotic but rather feels almost flirtatious, breathless, like a Homeric muse lulling you further into sweet oblivion. But if you do find yourself nodding off, the album is likely to induce some of the most otherworldly dreams that you've ever experienced.

tags: film school, brilliant career, 2001, flac,