Haunted by its past, the jet lagged tones walk on, eternally looping in the mind as they think of what might have been. In a place where circles never become circles, they bow, head down, with a dull form of sadness ringing in the ears. The feelings trail behind, connected to the body like personalized, portable earphones. It’s not something you can just walk off.
Rolling into the mind like heavy, leaden clouds that were up to this point endlessly delayed, the drones glide and dip as if they were recounting life’s highs and lows. The deep tones lead a ghostly procession, subsiding and rising with slow purpose. Kyle Bobby Dunn & The Infinite Sadness is clear headed yet low in its spirits.
For the most part, Dunn’s drones reside in the lower register, vague and slightly muddied. Occasionally though, they are punctured by brighter timbres that break through the clouds like a thin pool of brave sunlight. The music of Kyle Bobby Dunn is sad but it isn’t gloomy or oppressive. On the contrary, the tones, when gelled together, produce something bittersweet; like love and loss, failure and hope, vanilla ice cream instead of black cherry.
A dull tonal colour jets out of the music, black ink staining the fragile state of mind and the drone with its stretches of sustain. The deeper drones sink, lost forever. The sadness is subtle, diluted and yet wide-eyed. Checking in at over two hours, Infinite Sadness is similar in terms of length and quality to Bring Me The Head of Kyle Bobby Dunn, but it is cooler and subdued; the narrow tones repeatedly walk the same districts. It is a long, sobering record, but its size is fully justified. It’s difficult to pinpoint a single piece, because every composition is a gorgeous one. Saying that, “Rue De Guy-Mathieu” is a rainy thirteen minutes. Rain is so often associated with melancholy, and it comes to wash the faded chalk of the pavements as well as providing sustenance to the grey, cloudy thoughts. Roads head towards streets of disappointment, and the black asphalt mirrors the state of the heart as it ponders the love that never came.
Music is a mirror, a reflection on our inner emotions that masks as a sustained semibreve. In a way, returning thoughts are loops, too, and if they are melancholic there is often no chance of a subsequent resolution. Unlike a musical loop, it will not surrender its grip lightly. Maeror Tri were right – there is beauty in sadness. After a break-up, the mind takes its refuge in the minor keys and the sad songs; a subconscious act of longing with some scant consolation in the lyrics.
The drones close down, for the most part shuttered away in the low, deeper end of the tonal spectrum. It’s music that you can sink into and inhale deeply, clearing the mind of its daily clutter and needless drama. Dunn’s musical skill is apparent; his textures are highly detailed and yet infinitely vague. Beautiful round drones shine gently, pale against the skin. “Powers of None” is the closest we come to a noticeable harmony. Dunn’s prevalent black humour is sublimely twisted and puts a stop to the music recounting a tale of tragedy.
“And The Day Is Dunn (And I Can Only Think Of You)” is heart wrenching. Sadness can linger like a sustained note, not just dripping but bleeding as tone goes into tone. It stays awhile, from the first teardrop of many to the last drop of rain on the windshield. Sadness can come in many forms, but with music like this you’ll never be alone. (James Catchpole)