To their credit, but probably also to their annoyance, Russian Circles seem to be known as musicians first, a band second. Much has been made of Mike Sullivan’s harrowing guitar skills and his densely-layered construction of riffs and tapped melodies, and about half of all comments I see on new Russian Circles songs seem to be about Dave Turncrantz’s octo-armed fills and furiously technical math-rock mindset. And there’s certainly something to it: after being frustrated by the challenges of Station, a friend told me to watch Turncrantz in live videos, and suddenly the songs made sense to me. But as I alluded to in my recent review of Castevet’s Obsian, there has to be something beyond pure skill driving a band, else their songs flail and sputter, failing to reach any spiritual dimension of sound.
For Russian Circles, Memorial may be the record that breaks that mode of discussion. After the post-hardcore throbs that populated much of 2011’s Empros, Memorial feels lacking in bite, a sheen covering the guitars and bass, preventing them from truly cutting through the mix. This bothered me for a long time, much as Station did after I had been weened on the fairly clear post-metal of Enter.
But now I realize that this de-fanging works for the album as a whole, allowing more melodic and hypnotic textures to come to the fore, as they do on most of the album. “Ethel” follows waltzing triplets tapped out by Sullivan as Brian Cook’s bass takes the lead, and “Cheyenne” follows a very slow, very pretty build with minimal percussion, not metal but not quite post-rock, either. On Memorial’s much-balleyhooed title track, the band enlists L.A. goth scenester Chelsea Wolfe to drape their song with an indecipherable melody, and each part adorns the others in a moment of crystal simplicity.
The record has its heavier moments, but these tend to be concentrated in their own tracks that flow into and out of more serene places. “Deficit” brings Cook’s chugging bass back from his These Arms are Snakes days, and similar riffs pop up on “Burial” and “Lebaron.” But even these moments feel more expansive, more conscious of their place within the album’s flow. There’s nothing showy about each guitar part, each rim-tap and cymbal crash; everything is in its right place.
Not that Russian Circles was ever made of musical braggarts, but the conversation around the band turned its members into that for many of us. And there are moments on Memorial to soothe that view, particularly coming from Turncrantz, whose simple, double-tracked hi-hat that opens “1777.” What is more impressive is that as a unit the band composes better than before, each section of quiet not merely a lull before the riff re-emerges. If Russian Circles spent the time between Station and Empros tinkering with the script, on Memorial it is completely rewritten, in terms of pacing, mood, and aim. I don’t need to tell you it makes for a stronger band and better music.
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