Dave Abramson’s composition 

leaves no question—it’s a gorgeous piece of music. Simple and naked, elegant.  demands a more sophisticated appreciation. What sounds like a top-forty dance candidate turns difficult in its lyricism. There is an ecstatic confusion to be had there again and again. A work like  demands another attention altogether. Here is a sonic document that could either be a high-minded avant think-piece or a perfectly loony exercise in drug-induced psychotic garagebanding.

But each of these works has an urgency—an urgency made all the more pressing by the subtlety with which each finds, singularly, it must be expressed. There isn’t a reliable top-forty any more, only that oceanic feeling of a radio with no end to the dial. On either end. Monarch Review Music is happy to bring you a few stations just this side of that oblivion.

The Music Editors
Caleb Thompson
Evan Flory-Barnes