Passively seeing beauty in the green of the countryside is easy; seeking beauty in the city is another matter. The former involves letting nature wash over the eyes, while the latter forces a squint through the cracks of a seemingly seamless metallic sheen. On their second full-length album, The Remote Viewer scrunched up beats as though they were shiny sweet wrappers and undercut them with poignant, melancholic lullabies. The effect is unusual, but no more strange and disassociating than a walk through any modern metropolis. Over forty-four minutes, a mesmerising acoustica unfolds. When the final clicky beat subsides, it leaves, like a healthy meditation, having satiated something subconscious.
29/30
A favourite: ‘There Used to Be More of Us’
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