Low: things we lost in the fire

I remember reading somewhere that the world would be a better place if everyone would listen to some Low every now and then. Considering the way I felt after listening to the band's new album, Things We Lost in the Fire, I have to agree. Any malevolence I might have felt at the record's outset was lost by the time the last note faded away. Then I fell asleep and didn't wake up until late the next morning when my first class was half over. If your sleep is hurried and your relaxation frantic, you need this album. Take it with warm milk once a day for a week, and your problems will melt away.

Low's latest is an album of hymns to aching intellectualism. It spoons out your soul and leaves you feeling a pleasant sort of sadness. The voices of the two singers, who are husband and wife, wrap smoothly around each other, sometimes braiding themselves into a layer of elegant harmony. They work together like the strings on a guitar, perfectly synchronized and just a step apart.

The instrumentation is sparse—based around guitar, piano, and a softly-tapped drum set—but cleverly orchestrated. Still, those who are familiar with Low's previous albums will note that the guitar is louder in a few places. An occasional burst of strings, trumpets, or vibes cuts in to drive the point home. Still, the album is lullaby-soft and will bring your mother—if not you—to tears. Not a single note is out of place, and the heavy silence that envelops the songs at key points is as beautiful as the most emotional crescendo, pinning you down where you sit, a willing captive.

If I sound overly dramatic, it's merely because this album warrants it. In a world of sitcoms and action movies, Things We Lost in the Fire is a black and white silent film, seducing you with dark-lashed Valentinos and softly fainting women.

Low comes from icy Duluth, Minn., and its songs sound like they were written for the snow. They fall quietly to the ground and melt harmlessly into your ears, covering your world with a weighty mantle of silence. It's like falling asleep in a snowstorm. (Kranky) —Larkin Grimm

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