The results highlight the romantic potential in Davachi's ostensibly academic method. The record is an "homage" to her background as a keyboard player, which might explain its creeping nostalgia, expressed in sepia colouring and occasional dog ears of distortion. (An accompanying film from the recently deceased Paul Clipson puts Davachi at one remove from another purveyor of shadowy nostalgia, Grouper.) The album title, meanwhile, might refer to the artist's preference for working at night. There's no doubt that its hushed, meditative compositions are suited to the witching hour. Recital boss Sean McCann nailed the ideal listening situation: "A blanket, a cup of wine, a dim bulb, a wide window."
Not that the album's darkness is exactly comforting. There's something unsettlingly gothic in its dusty, gloomy interiors, spidery melodies and unresolved cadences. "Mordents" is the best evidence, an 11-minute sequence of complementary ideas that pass like scenes in a dream. Opening with stilted baroque lead lines, the track becomes ever more static, eventually pooling into organ chords that glimmer like embers. Each section is gorgeous, even with the undertone of angst.
Elsewhere, tracks like "Garlands" and "At Hand," static and hesitant, don't offer much reassurance. And when firmer resolution does come it's on "Buhrstone," whose firmer piano chords toll like funeral bells. (If you squint there's some Twin Peaks in there.) Only on the closer, "Hours In The Evening," does Davachi sweep away the spider webs. Its 13 minutes of wombing drone-chord, swelling, rippling and reforming near-imperceptibly, are Davachi at her best.