Either you're one of those people who puzzles over connect-the-dots drawings for hours without making sense of the thing, or you see it instantly. Likewise, when Britain-born Richard Youngs kicks into one of his half-hour length, piano-and-vocal ballads, it's either wonderful or excruciating, depending entirely on whether you're willing to put in the time to put it together.

Usually, if a song is 22 minutes long, it's because it's so overstuffed with changes, tempo shifts and experimental passages that it can't possibly fit into the 3:40 format accorded the average pop song. Youngs, on the other hand, doesn't stretch a track like "Warriors" to a positively epic length by cramming it with prog-rock theatrics and guitar solos; he does it by slowing the thing down.

Come to think of it, "epic" isn't the word for "Warriors" at all-- that would imply elaborateness, or at least a wide scope. This track, however, is just a pair of piano chords repeated at a glacial pace and Young's wan, frail voice. You heard right. One song. For 22 minutes. I am not making this up. It sounds like Young recorded a spritely little number and had a field day with the variable-speed fader. Each chord echoes and reverberates before the next one begins. Youngs' voice quavers over single syllables for deciminutes at a time.

Surprisingly, this isn't nearly as excruciating as it sounds. For utterly intangible reasons, Youngs' formula is surprisingly effective. Having previously released a similarly paced suite of acoustic guitar numbers about his recently passed dog, he seems to know what he's doing. And despite its repetitive qualities, the unresolved nature of "Warriors" manages to come off surprisingly evocative. Each chord hangs in the air for a minute, and the lyrics-- standard fantasy-rock fare about ancient battlefields or something-- unfold their narrative slowly and assuredly, allowing the track to firmly hold attention for most of its duration.

All this said, Making Paper relies entirely on the listener's frame of mind. For one listen, the record induces a trance-like state full of contemplation; on the second or third helping, it seems like the worst mistake ever. With so little going on, it's necessary for the person on the other end of the speakers to connect the conceptual dots. If you're up for it, give it a try.

-Sam Eccleston