 |
MH-224 Her Space Holiday - The Young Machines  Change... love... death... infidelity... confession... a break up. Marc Bianchi is nearly surgical in his ability to slice delicate songs of love, loss, hope, despair, and optimism out of one very hard year. His striking new release as Her Space Holiday is The Young Machines, an authentic foray into intelligent dream-pop. The production is everything you have come to expect from Her Space Holiday; intricate string arrangements, analog synth patterns, lush guitar-like drones and tasteful drum programming abound, but it is the songwriting that elevates the album to its elite status. Traditional song structures take unexpected turns throughout, highlighting introspection and vulnerability most often missing in electronic music. The Young Machines is a ten-song encapsulation of a year on the edge and Her Space Holiday's most complete and personal release. |
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Reviews Summary |
| Gentle, beautiful and unspeakably sad - New York Times / Rapturous and bittersweet, The Young Machines is a soothing swoon - Entertainment Weekly / Terrific stuff - Q / A beautiful bittersweet record - Under The Radar / Often on a par with the very best of Elliott Smith - Uncut / The finest Her Space Holiday release - Pulse / Bianchi has made the album of his life - Logo |
| Reviews | |
|
| Listening to Marc Bianchi's newest is like hearing the sound of a close friend's heart imploding: quiet, insistent, sweetly swollen, and shot through with enough retroactive disappointment to make you want to hand the poor fellow a copy of Pet Sounds, and possibly a Xanax or two. As far as the shattered relationship genre of lulling dream pop, The Young Machines is a near perfect chronicle of slow-building sorrow, founded on gentle swells of plaintive electronic beats, lushly building strings, and Bianchi's soft, painfully lonely voice. When he sings, "This bed gets so damn cold / I hate sleeping here alone but it's all right / This feeling is well deserved / I've been owed all this hurt for a long time," on "The Luxury of Loneliness," it's enough to make you cry, and it does. At times, the melodies here tread the same slick-with-tears floorboards of Death Cab for Cutie and the Postal Service, but Bianchi's ambient heartsickness is more poignant and emotionally naked, swimming in a pitching sea of self-recrimination and crested with a gorgeous misery. Please, someone give Bianchi a hug before he's found dangling in a closet somewhere. An artist capable of music this brutally affecting is simply too exquisite to lose. - Austin Chronicle |
2XLP/Out Of Print