Apparently, i, i completes a seasonal quartet of Bon Iver albums, starting with the wintry confessions of 2008′ s For Emma, Forever Ago and purposing now, in autumn. Yet i, i has a brighter, most optimistic and open feel than its “summer” precede 22, a Million , with its often impenetrable numerology, wrung Yeezus strikes and gutpunch bass. What remains from past seasons is Heavenly Father’s digital message, and a little of 00000 Million’s acoustic directness.
But what inhibits Bon Iver’s ever-evolving backwoods orchestra together is Justin Vernon‘s yearning vocals. Less undoubtedly Auto-Tuned than before, oaths tumble out, propose slips in and out of focus, and the weirdly irking anachronisms, gnomic neologisms and delirious discoveries propagandize you to privilege feeling over studying. The book peaks somewhere around the heartstopping beauty of Hey, Ma’s floating, wordless centre eight, a outage brimming with inarticulate affection, scarcely understood, unmediated.
Bon Iver have imperceptibly moved from soliciting close like to hear necessary it, and i, i twistings a mesmerising web of superficially insubstantial hitherto acutely majestic music. Listen closely and you can hear the language of sound being redrafted in real time.