Julian Lynch Lines

On first listen, a Julian Lynch record can be a perplexing challenge. He will certainly not make it easy for you. That’s because the studious New Jersey native embraces, at least in spirit, the free-form, avant-leaning oddities of seventies prog. A bevy of unrestrained arrangements and improvised sub-sections shape shift without a moment’s notice, trying to assimilate something close to actual ‘songs’. And though it’s curious that it takes a good amount to time to create a piece of music that doesn’t want to obey the norms of structure, Lynch also clears the paths as he goes, hoping to take you into a harmonious place that’s gentle and serene.

Lines is Lynch’s most complete effort, altogether more rhythmically loose and less meticulously detailed. Not to say that it completely excuses his past tendencies – the penetrating intricacies of Horse Chestnut are noticeable in how it contrasts its freak-out horns with hollow timpani strokes and sweeping orchestrations, not a stretch from the psychedelic pop of XTC via Skylarking. But beneath the screeching, buzzsaw riffing and limber guitar lines, the rhythmic flow of Carlos kelleyi I never derails off course, and remains fairly straightforward. Simple is best in the enchanting North Lines, a two-minute instrumental made up of a beautiful pastoral guitar line that paints the pure, romantic image of a traditional Indian wedding.

What Lynch does maintain from past efforts is a sense of nocturnal whimsy, best represented in the title track, in which Lynch mutters over a prominent melancholic chord progression as it proceeds into a percussive, tabla-arranged groove. Even the appropriately titled Yawning sounds like it arose during a restless night, shaking off the weariness off his body with a fleet fingerpicking strum as a burst of sweltering synths and persistent beats get him back to speed.

The incongruent elements that Lynch utilizes in Lines conjoin into a collective force, accentuating all the minimal moments that embellish his peculiar arrangements without ever affecting the momentum of the songs. It’s those little details that denote a spurt of growth, a sign of steady change evidenced in an artist who continues to flesh out the improvisational pulse of jazz. Some experiments break his mild-mannered appearance, like in the madcap Onions, which takes his spacey sonics into an ecstatic rush of wah-wah flailing; not to mention, it could easily be featured as the “main” theme song for a hyperactive cartoon. But aside from Onions, the atonal tapestry of Lines is far from arbitrary, and cunningly adds a new thread without breaking its usual design pattern.