ANTIMATTER

A Profusion Of Thought MUSIC IN STONE

THE MISSING ELEMENT IS A THEME THREADING THESE SONGS TOGETHER.

Mick Moss cleans out his closet.

Over the course of his previous six studio albums recorded under the Antimatter name, Mick Moss has insisted on challenging himself as a songwriter by continually writing new songs from scratch rather than delving back into his archive of old demos and unreleased songs for fresh material. Yet it seems doing things the hard way has taken its toll on Moss. In 2021 he admitted, “It hurt to make [Antimatter’s last studio album] Black Market Enlightenment. I need a rest.”

Thankfully, as a result of the aforementioned no-lookingback approach, he’s ended up with quite some library of unheard compositions, and on A Profusion Of Thought he’s given himself something of a break by rehabilitating “10 previously unheard, unrecorded songs” left on the cutting room floor between 2003 and 2018. Whether they work as well together as a new set of tunes constructed in the same period and state of mind is debatable, but in their own right, several of these songs sound well worth their belated opportunity to see the light of day.

Opener No Contact, for instance, builds from contemplative acoustic beginnings into an epic angst rock swell that suggests it was a track that needed to be the centrepiece of its own album, hence its non-inclusion on any previous long-players when originally penned. Moss’ winningly emotive voice, often leaning into melodrama but never less than convincing, is particularly resonant here, echoing

David Sylvian at times, and similarly striking when backed by the stripped-back textures of Redshift.

Perhaps the one element missing is an understandable one – a feeling or theme threading these songs together as a set. Moss’ characteristic brooding style unites them but at times they begin to blend into one until notable elements prick up the ears again. The despondent melancholia of lead single Fold is compelling but familiar, but then a stirring guitar solo adds a further burst of colour; the growling techno underpinning Heathen effectively offsets a more selflacerating vocal delivery before a squall of sax brings the piece to the edge of hysteria then dies away as Moss whispers malevolently, ‘I am becoming someone/As my mind falls away.’

Likewise, the squawking film dialogue at the end of Paranoid Carbon adds to the claustrophobic feel of it all and lifts it out of the ordinary.

All told, though, the album title rather sums this set up: a surfeit of ideas that were definitely worth exploring, but which, when put together in one place, don’t really lead us on any clearly defined journey.