Tamaryn – The Waves

January 01, 1970



(Mexican Summer)




Stoned and sometimes pleasantly shapeless, Tamaryn’s
debut record is primed for late summer. While this collection appears to fit
snugly into the lot of beach-obsessed efforts that flooded 2010’s independent
market, it’s in packaging alone. The
is grayed-out and spacious, with woozy, lush textures similar to
those dealt by recent one-offs like Deerhunter affiliate Lotus Plaza, or
beloved acts like Ride, whose early ‘90s outings rank as some of the most
creative of the much-ballyhooed shoegaze golden era. Tamaryn’s debut
full-length follows a handful of shorter outings, and is the work of two
people, a New Zealand-born vocalist after which the act is named, and her
producer/collaborator Rex John Shelverton.


Languid swirls of pedal-looped guitars and jangling
tambourines nearly drown out Tamaryn’s soothing, mostly whispered Hope
Sandoval-esque contributions on The Waves.
Only a few chugging chords rev-up the base of “Sandstone,” with
Shelverton peppering the muddy background with a slow, fraying lead. Through
the headphones it’s delirious-lo-fi, noisy psyche rattled by floor toms and
gentle coos that just about see their way through to the forefront of the
track. Although the same tide of guitar rushes into the back corners of
“Dawning,” it’s one in the minority here that owes far more to dark
pop, with a driving, whole-kit percussion sound and a more distinct structure.
Tamaryn explores both directions with a precious free spirit, blurring each
moment with a subtle, sunwashed haze.


DOWNLOAD: “Sandstone,” “Mild Confusion” DOMINIC UMILE


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