Put on “jaime foyers’ dream of the rood,” and then leave the room. Go do something else: feed the pets, brush your teeth, pour a third cup of coffee. Re-enter the room, then leave again briefly, then return. Repeat. “dream” sounds slightly different, every single time; one or the other of the chained melodic motifs seem to swat at your awareness from some new, fresh angle. It’s a bit like watching a magician who unceremoniously produces two large rubber bands, and initiates two cat’s cradles simultaneously, as though it’s no big deal, something she does every day.
The synth pulse appears to bop forward steadily, the ambient equivalent of a Nintendo Wii avatar striding across an endlessly regenerating landscape. Look closely. That landscape does change, albeit imperceptibly. The rocks do not recur in exactly the same spots; the trees aren’t precisely the same height; the sky darkens from ultra blue to a murderous purple. To those paying actual attention, “dream” is playing a surreptitious game of inches; to everyone else, it’s a hospital monitor re-imagined as sub-dermal pop massage. Who really cares, though? We’re all winners here.