As a recipe, it risks tipping over into blandly "sinister" territory; fortunately Dickinson has a knack for teasing a quiet melancholia out of his source material. The Long Rain both begins and ends with moments of gorgeousness. "And Nor Was He Mistaken" opens with trembling bell-like chords and a voice intoning, with mantric regularity, "the light." "Ondras Rising" closes with curlicues of feedback that weave through one another with a stumbling grace.
Elsewhere, the palette is more spartan but no less delicate. "And Nor Was He Mistaken" advances in a stately fashion, each texture—the furtive clinking of metal, a ragged electrical hum, soft-edged drones—steadily advancing into the foreground before receding to allow the next to take its place. "Ondras Rising," meanwhile, is a little more erratic and abrasive: after a restless opening where strangled tones periodically threaten to burst free of their constraints, the glacial momentum seems to falter, leaving us with a mild sense of purposelessness. Still, Dickinson soon regains his stride, and the latter half is given over to a snatch of bizarre monologue, masterfully looped and layered over itself at different pitches to create a mulchy, dissociative canon of sorts; strange, yes, but addictively so.