A phone’s ringback tone is one of our more anxiety-inducing technological wonders.
Breastmilk’s Bliss opens with a paranoid, Sisyphean nightmare: the endless ring-to-voicemail orbit, a never-ending death spiral that the more haunted listener may find unbearably recognizable.
The unease doesn’t subside much from there. Vocals float in the aether and clatter down in granulated sobs. Bass drums pump like a nervous heart. Things crash and break and scrape.
Yet despite the cacophony and misery, what one remembers most about Bliss are the bare, effective melodic moments, the chilly ambience, and a deeper calm that survives and pervades.