If anyone ever attempted to make a truly "beautiful" pornographic film -- and we're willing to believe that somebody has tried, however dubious the results -- the score would probably sound like Blindfold's music. Electronic music's standardized clicks, kicks and synth washes take these deeply intimate songs to a place where the personal becomes universal. For all the messy, emotional bits hanging out in the open, for every dissonant guitar part and whining synth, there are basic beats to anchor Birgir Hilmarrson's compositions. Slow, sensuous, subdued and strangely, intensely erotic, this expansive music is the sort of thing that could turn something awkward -- for instance, watching strangers fuck -- into a surprisingly sublime experience.
Hilmarrson's approach falls somewhere between The Album Leaf's glacial electronic soundscapes and a David Bowie-influenced 1980s film score. Distortion colors every note, and crisp, shuffling beats hold them together. "Nightfall" in particular, with its harmonica-like synths and ghostly choral washes, speaks to an Album Leaf connection, which in turn refers to Jimmy LaValle's Sigur Rós obsession. "Ofsi" shares its unique touch for turning the cold and inaccessible into a personal listening experience. "I See You Through Me" dusts off the drum kit and Hilmarrson's shy vocals.
However, it's with Hilmarrson's most distorted, experimental compositions that he carves out his own identity in sharpest contrast to his influences. "Interval" blends twinkling sounds high enough that you'll almost fail to notice the way they twist in the wind with an unsteady low end. "Don't Despair" builds slowly from echo-chamber percussion to heavily distorted, nervous but beautiful guitars and an almost sinister low-end synth. Hilmarrson maintains a powerful tension for a couple of minutes before letting it all dissipate. He does it so effortlessly, you'll wonder how he held it together so long; like a sheet of paper dipped in gasoline then lit on fire, the song is gone.
"Lucky Beach Riviera Song" successfully brings Blindfold's more ephemeral charms into line with Hilmarrson's Sigur Rós leanings, ghostly vocals and accordion-like electronics wafting through the after-images of something very much like a cymbal. Epic closer "Pokubörnin" feels like the momentous culmination of Blindfold's basic mission statement, but nothing really beats "Sleepless Nights". With every element just slightly out of place, from Hilmarrson's echoing vocals shimmering in the higher registers to drums that can't decide quite how low they want to be, to droning guitars carving out space for more delicate instrumental flourishes, "Sleepless Nights" leaves you with the impression of a song barely made. This, perhaps, is why sex comes to mind.
Like the most tenuous of romantic connections, Blindfold seems barely to have been made. From its creator's incredibly shy vocal contributions to the minute quavering of his favorite instruments, each sonic element reeks of transience. The briefest and most inexplicable of sexual encounters -- the vaguely pornographic, the beautifully unnecessary and unexpected -- are infused with this same exact melancholy. Regardless, the intimacy is undeniable. If you can't imagine why Blindfold evoke in some listeners such sordid ideas, you'll at least be able to understand the sense of closeness. Hilmarsson clutches us to his breast for the duration of his work. As with any form of intimacy -- even the kind you can only watch others engage in -- many will find this frightening. As with every form of intimacy, the rewards are more than worth the risk.
