A fictional account of an album’s creation:
The artist sits silently among stacks of novella and memorabilia in a silent room. Very little light is present in the room save that given off by a few weak bulbs placed in corners. His movements are slow and careful as he reaches for a knob half hidden underneath a sheaf of papers. Suddenly the room seems to come alive in spite of itself: life despite dust. A chorus of dulcimers dance atop liquid xylophone strikes. The artist manipulates another creaky knob and the addictive introduction begins filling with other sounds like an opened dam. Moved by his own creation of dub drums and Utopian organs, he begins repeating a mantra into an echo chamber repeatedly, “Do you know how far I’ve come to be with you? Clarity escapes me.” The layering of elements is so pleasant it is repeated several times; the artist can’t help being pleased with its beauty.
These episodes occur at random. At times the artist merely sits staring into space, other times he is filled with the urge to touch another instrument panel. Sometimes a thought goes unfinished, his inspiration sudden but brief, so that after turning a knob his crystalline synthesizers and organs are married only for a brief time before fading into stillness yet again.
Over time something has been building within the artist. Something that he feels more strongly than anything that had caused him to reach for the instruments previously. Several knobs are turned and familiar electronic bleeps warm him as they dance upon each other. This time he reaches higher, a knob that introduces drums swiftly and then moves them faster as he is once again moved to say something into the echo chamber. Faster now. He continues to voice in to the chamber, muted and indistinguishable but satisfying to him and now he breaks into a clear voice: “Origami day dreams, you and your paper cranes.” It is simple but repeatable -- he’ll make something amazing with this he realizes.
And on. On. In his room the artist makes more layers, often warm, sometimes speaking without clarity into his echo chamber. The knobs are turned with precision and create what can be expected from the heavy waves of organ and synthesizer, little bleeps, and he knows exactly why he turns each knob. After his "Paper Cranes" the artist felt inspired but somewhat tired, as if the beauty of that episode had taken something from him. The knobs are turned, many of them at once sometimes and with equal speed but with a paucity of emotion. The artist realizes that his voice, his person, has left the vortex of sound, but the richness gradually becomes almost overwhelming. Eventually knobs aren’t simply turned but bent in a grandiose fit creating landscapes of pouring sound that create inspiration rather than result from it. He cannot help but be satisfied: the instruments are creating more than he could have ever hoped from inside such a small room. He will give it a name now, something strange but fitting; yes, he will call it Kiku.
-Brendan Kraft