Wish For A World Without Hurt

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Gorgeous and mournful, this is a recording (as the title promises) that encourages contemplation of the human condition. Rothko, which was previously a dark ambient group comprised of three electric bassists and assorted guests, has now apparently been distilled into Mark Beazley alone, who seems to be playing electric guitar more than bass -- and quite possibly a treated piano or other keyboard. The "quite possibly" is advised, because Rothko's collaborator on this recording, BLK w/ BEAR (aka J.S., Adams) is a visual artist and self-confessed purveyor of "failed communication and decomposed transmission" who could, in fact, be playing (or sampling) almost anything at all.

The extraordinary title track begins with a melancholy, watery keyboard figure that carries the suggestion of tolling church bells or channel buoys in thick fog. Harold Budd (who has previously worked with Rothko) would be proud. Adams' arresting contribution comes twenty-five seconds into the piece, in the form of distant, muted sounds of a huge, cataclysmic crash, which are subsequently varied in duration and intensity as they occasionally re-emerge throughout the piece. The two musicians have previously stated that their collaboration is intended as a remembrance of 9/11, but this sound is symbolic as much as literal, and it conveys a feeling of unease and foreboding as much as one of disaster.

Next up is "I feel lost without you," which features Adams' turntable manipulations. It stutters and stammers its way into a gray, minor-key oblivion, and its communication of personal dislocation is haunting and emotionally charged. Then on "Declaration of loss," Beazley's guitar makes its first appearance, after a nice opening of trance minimalist keyboard drones. The guitar is much more prominent than the keyboards in most of the remaining six tracks, including this one, and it's the kind of guitar you'd perhaps expect from an accomplished bassist - clean, clear and understated. Riffs are repeated slowly and thoughtfully, with subtle variations in duration and interval, while Adams adds contributions from his discrete palette of rumbles, clicks and wheezy drone harmonies. The guitar is double-tracked on "Treasure of memories," and as the title attests, the sound of Beazley's guitar generally leans more toward dream-like reverie than to the heart-rending sorrow of the opening track, even though virtually everything on the CD, including the guitar work, is downtempo and in minor keys.

"Dropped from clouds" serves as a kind of showcase for Adams; his ghostly, shrouded treatments are on equal footing here with Beazley's almost subliminal guitar musings. "Lowering with wolves" also allows Adams to work his magic with a variety of quietly unsettling sounds that seem to emerge directly from the subconscious. The dirge-like "Like nails in the rain," which is the other prime cut of restrained suffering (along with the title track), features the plaintive, neo-primitive violin work of Frances Morgan, backed as usual by Adams' gently ambiguous textures. Comparisons can be invidious, but more than anything else this recording harkens back to vintage Brian Eno and Harold Budd. It invites you to sink just as deeply into it as you wish, and can function either as pleasant but rather pensive background music or as a powerful stimulus to serious reflection.