Vega

If Andrew Chalk’s music is often misty, on Vega, it’s densely fogged, miasmic. The three pieces here feel as though they’re broadcasting from miles away; it’s one of Chalk’s most mysterious offerings. This kind of music often gets called ghostly, but Vega genuinely feels haunted, or at least inhabited by indefinable presences. Aspects of the album point back to the metallic, abrasive textures of Chalk’s earliest work, as Ferial Confine, but being shrouded in reverb, their edges are dulled; the slow, meandering phrases that play over the top have a church-like sonority. It has a curious sense of distance, as though it’s keeping you from accessing its core; at the same time, it’s deeply luxuriant, sound to bathe in.