With Adrift, we can enjoy the shy company of the music for who she really is. She is an ambient romantic, someone seeking out solitude and yet tender, understanding companionship. We are never alone, because we all sail away on the music. The hazy ambient opening sets sail on a placid, washed tone, unburdened by trouble. She isn’t familiar with the word, and it’s hard to worry about something you know nothing about.
The airy light of September trickles in, as if emanating from a shallow creek. That spectacular, smoky glow of Autumn, just before the leaves greet their demise and are taken away. A supple pool of shady light dulls the blue of the day. The fragile light drips into the music. It is turned low, copying the music’s introspective volume. A muddied piano plays around a gently-lit progression, while a pensive melody plays just above, fluttering as if on the wings of a butterfly. Adrift is musically lush, deeply sensitive in feel and sober in motion. Steve Gibbs manages to stun and sedate at the same time, carefully allowing the light (piano) to filter in. His ambient music stays with you, by your side rather than over your shoulder, reassuring rather than haunting. Adrift is a soothing inhalation of ambient sound, thoughtful and kind.
“Low Light” settles down for dusk, light seeping out of the sky. It’s a quieter, reflective piece, a beautiful time of day, and one that still has plenty of warmth despite the failing light. “Bokeh” has a gentle guitar melody running through its center, thin in its treble tone and bringing back golden memories of The Campfire Headphase by Boards of Canada. The piano returns, overlapping the repeating melodic phrase as it travels down the creek. The last chord is a beautiful sigh of relief, its delayed notes spreading out like slivers of sunshine showering the wings of a dove. The strings bring in a classical touch, but it stays true to its ambient center; stays true to herself. Adrift is introverted music, drenched in amber. (James Catchpole)