Chad Munson’s Surface Tension (Muzan Editions) is the aural equivalent of a lake. Yep, a body of water, surrounded by trees and mountains, a repository in the middle of nowhere. And there aren’t any people around — that would just spoil the whole vibe anyway, what with their campfires and their backpacks and their fracking and whatnot. So it’s simply a lake with its own aquatic ecosystem, stretched there in the cool afternoon under the clear autumn sky.
Studying the lake reveals its changes. These changes do not happen quickly, although you may miss them if you’re not paying attention. Ripples form from a variety of stimuli — rain, wind, … fish, uh … leaves? — and reverberate outward. But most of the time it revels in its placidity, a mirror, a mask, an opaque shimmer obscuring what’s beneath it, what’s behind it. Munson builds and recedes with the weather patterns, but in the end he’s a constant presence, a sculptor of mood way out here, owning the zones among the glory of the natural environment.
Which is sort of weird since I was all like, “there aren’t any people around,” etc. I guess Munson’s the only one.
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