BCMC

Where the band’s debut felt like a testing of boundaries; an improv-heavy dip into headiness that only hinted at its creators strengths, the latest album from BCMC is a deliberately deep dive into the possibilities of Cooper Crain and Bill MacKay. Laced with pastoral prog and Kosmiche touches, the album furthers the reaches of the duo, ranging through raga, psych, folk, and fusion. The pair are mapping the ridges of the bardo one minute, fingering with funk the next. While the influences range far and wide, it’s no haphazard affair, Stash builds and billows. It folds in on itself and expands with the winds. Crane’s organ is a deep canyon echo to the core of the Earth, thrumming through one half and running down the spine of the Tarkus the next. Yet, wherever he leads, MacKay has just the flourish to follow, a kite and current mentality that renders the record in resplendent colors.

The album holds onto the kind of ‘70s eclecticism that made Bo Hansson a Hobbit’s dream, Keith Emerson a household name, and Rick Wakeman the reason that bedroom walls were dressed deep in Roger Dean dreams. Taken in pieces it flashes in hand-painted palettes, but collected as a whole it’s a pop-up book fantasy that hooks the listener and hauls them through fjords, flights, magic, and mystery. Once the door is opened it’s impossible to leave their labyrinth until the last notes of “Badland Rag” slowly saunter from view. Like the best of the bands they emulate, the duo has a tactile tendency. Smoke rises in ringlets, wind-worn wood feels smooth underfoot and the light from the canopy is damp with green hues. The band’s debut was a delight, but Stash wraps around the listener like a cocoon of clouds and crushed velvet.

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