Adarcah Ianqu fills my world (my congenital theater, that is) with special sounds. Sometimes those sounds are sad and sometimes happy. Either way, they have come to distinguish who I am, where I've been and where I'm going.
To commence 2022, Ianqu (in this instance performing as Millionfacesman) has given me (and all industrial-music lovers) Apostrophy, an album that possesses more than a few of my favorite (emotional) things, from both the dark and light sides of the life.
Its first track, "H" is (in an aesthetic nutshell) eerie: the sort of morphing anthem that might accompany Ishiro Honda's The H-Man, or any number of jinxed individuals who seek something grand but get so much more (or less) at the end of their physical, altered states.
In much the same manner, our Millionfacesman paints a tangent to "H'"s foundation through "underworld". In its musical juxtaposing, it triggers images of erudite monsters straight from Outer Limits, or perhaps from those tentacled, Lovecratfian annals of (any)one's mind.
"Cigarettes" and "purple fanatic" carry on the tradition, though here the capricious chords are funneled down a different drain, one in which the transformation comes through sheer choice. They're Jekyll-desiring-Hyde, knowing the consequences of their consuming formulas, but digesting them in spite of such.
The consequences of one's poisons are represented in "stolen miracle", where one's nourishing pursuits are abandoned along a rough-tinged track, and "left hand", where one's journey clashes with better judgment, riding the roads of witless risk.
On an optimistic flip, Ianqu grants listeners areas of pastoral escape: "golden fields", a gentle creation that conceives a special place to hide, and "November 1999", an electronic memory to mark a more significant year, with a hint of something grand almost near, but never quite attained. (That's okay, since it's the quest and not the lost prize that awards fulfillment.)
The album's final (titular) track, "Apostrophy", captures it all, cobbling the above ingredients with top-chef delight. It acts as both a prologue and epilogue, jigging upon the same welcoming/farewell stint: the pinnacle of cognition, molded from the various doubts and hopes that define it.
I'm grateful for Apostrophy's existence. It's an album that comprehends everyday complexities; and in a expanse of eternal confusion, it's pleasing to embrace an artist who empathizes to such a compassionate, if not uncanny degree.
https://adarcaheancu.bandcamp.com/album/apostrophy
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