As SICK to DEATH as a lot of us are of ambient drone, William Cody Watson has earned the right to explore its nether regions tenfold (feel free to peep the discog elsewhere); we owe him our allegiance. Not only that, but Mr. Pink Priest himself is in total control of his cosmic craft on the infamous Bill Murray LP, cracking the windshield of the drone vehicle à la Greg Davis or Dead Texan and setting the listener up for a long-haul drift that, when you FRAK away the outer layers with a blast of earwater, bears a resemblance to the eternal glow of Kyle Bobby Dunn compositions.
The best stretches of the album warm, simmer, then boil over with ominous aural goo that crackles, rustles, hisses, and swirls like the wind beneath an American Beauty plastic bag (too inside?). This is an extreme way to describe musical communications that don’t carry with them discernible climaxes, but I’ve never gotten stolid, restive vibes from WCW’s work, no matter how much, particularly here, it sometimes resembles the end (yep, they lied) of Never-Ending Story (another fucking film reference?): Heavenly, bleached white, and laced with pearly pillars. There’s something lurking beneath the soft glow of church lights and tinkling tones, and if it doesn’t have claws, it has talons; if no talons, then tentacles; if no tentacles, then at the very least Freddy fingernails (aNOTHER fucking movie reference?).
I’m starting to think my fear is baseless; perhaps sucking up much of the rest of his rusted oeuvre has caused me to expect demons that aren’t there. Either way, this isn’t a typical soaring glide to the heart of the Sun Spot. Cody Watson possesses the patient ear of a longtime underground wheel, and while it’s arguable whether it accomplishes anything the artist hasn’t already done, the Bill Murray LP, free of context, is a beautiful way to attain audio oneness.