Audiopile Review: Cuneiform Tabs, the cross-continental duo of Matt Bleyle and Sterling Mackinnon, shake off most of the buzzy coating of their debut from last year in favour of letting melodies bleed through the haze. Still trading their recordings back and forth across the pond, the duo are a little less keen on burying each other’s songs in a whirl of lo-fi hiss and post-punk sandblasting, but there is still an urge to keep it down in the basement. The dour psych-pop vocals hang in the air a bit longer, piercing through a shroud of looping FX, swirls of distortion and down-the-canyon guitars and keys, perhaps a reimagining of Jewelled Antler Collective if they had been stationed in the mid-00s Brooklyn noise scene. But it also brings to mind the great Sic Alps, Cuneiform Tabs poking at the same seams of garage rock and psychedelia until the filling spills out, leaving a trail of noisy outbursts and reverb overload amidst the earworm-y enchantment. And make no mistake that Cuneiform has landed on the same label that’s been issuing the Cindy Lee records, W. 25th clearly have an ear for these idiosyncratic voices that inhabit private dream-worlds of inverted-pop. A truly special record, this one.

***

Quickly on the heels of their debut, Cuneiform Tabs return with Age, an LP that takes a massive leap forward in both melodic sensibilities and inventiveness. Bathed in late night psychedelia and the looping repetition of a drone sample, the group’s experimental penchants remain, yet this time wrapped around tunes too sweet to be denied. In pulling back a little of the crackle and haze that made their first album so inviting, the Tabs have revealed more of their pop instincts. The overall effect is a perfect set of early Animal Collective demos or Syd Barrett attempting a Television Personalities cover at 3am.

The duo of Matt Bleyle and Sterling Mackinnon continue their system of trading 4-track tapes between the Bay Area and London, a furtive correspondence until sonic nuggets are fully formed. While these songs are very much the product of the Tascam and rudimentary software that is integral to the band, this album is truly the embrace of their songwriting talents—not unlike the recent breakthrough of labelmate Cindy Lee.

With the dream-like strum of “Ivy,” slow shimmer of “Orbital Rings” and enchanting, madcap swirl of “Blended Medal,” this is hypnagogic pop at its finest. Age is the record Bob Pollard hears in his head every time he steps down to the basement to pick up a guitar. This is the sound of riding in an elevator hearing McCartney singing “Blackbird” in the distance, only to have it draw closer and closer with each floor as you finally race down the hallway, putting your ear to each door searching for the source. This is Leonard Cohen smoking in the middle of the street outside a Suicide show. If all of this sounds phenomenal, it is.