We’re all made out of stardust, and to the stars we’ll one day return. The soul of Moonlooker (the ambient alias of Axel Zaren) belongs in the beyond, in the infinite and ancient points of light that surround our drifting Galaxy.
Subdued, muscular beats (at least on the opening two tracks) cradle bright, spiraling textures that project a vast, yawning image, beaming an eternal sound, one as cool as a lunar sunrise, into the depths of space. As we reach the second track, “White Bird on Black Snow”, the beats begin to lose muscle and tone. They lose their strong definition and their volume as they move further away. You can barely hear them when compared to the first track. At this stage, the music’s drifting, looking for a new home.
Seemingly empty reefs are black harbors for different, microscopic lifeforms. Some otherworldly creature tries to seep through, finding a tear in the fabric separating dimensions. “White Bird On White Snow” floats in an airless vacuum, empty but for a misty doorway leading to another world; the music contains all things.
The tracks gel into each other. Synths slide down icy, monolithic mountains and glide across titanic, colorless clouds of dust. The starlight’s already old by the time it reaches us, and the human body, a temporary temple for the soul that’s upheld by the ivory architecture of a skeleton, can only look up at the sky and marvel at it all. Where is everyone? Where is the evidence? Perhaps the sky’s empty because other, technologically advanced species have ultimately wiped themselves out. The lonesome silence can be terrifying. There are 10,000 stars for every grain of sand, and yet still no contact has been established. This is music for the beyond, the waves of sound containing all that is and ever was, music for closure and new horizons; music of starlight in repose. (James Catchpole)