Will Oldham has a doppelganger of sorts in James Molina, the singer-songwriter behind Songs: Ohia. No, Molina hasn't been known to sport a Marxian beard, and he's long since ditched his multiple monikers. But he has a few other things in common with Oldham, alt-folk's reigning Prince of Darkness. Consider the following: in 1996, Molina released a single on the Palace imprint; he now consistently records with a rotating cast of musicians; and Ghost Tropic was Molina's second full-length release of 2000 (The Lioness came earlier in the year).

But the connection runs deeper. Molina also plays hushed, somber folk music, usually with sparse instrumentation. His lyrics, while more personal, are nearly as poetic and dark. Then, of course, the most obvious comparison: the fragile voice. Generally speaking, Molina's pipes are cleaner than Oldham's-- a fact that becomes particularly apparent during those rare high notes. But when low-key, his voice sounds disconcertingly similar. Thus, given that since 1999's Axxess & Ace-- his highwatermark thus far-- Molina has become subtler and even more subdued, and his voice has moved closer in nature to Oldham's. On Ghost Tropic, where Molina's voice is now similarly broken, the difference would be indistinguishable to the untrained ear.

The comparison between Molina and Oldham has been made time and again, and is probably as sickening to Songs: Ohia's fans as it is to him. But there's a reason I insist on making the tired comparison: never before has it been more apt. Ghost Tropic, the band's fifth proper full-length, makes even The Lioness seem, at the very least, content. For his version of "I See a Darkness"-- or rather, "I See a Heart of Darkness"-- Molina again enlisted Alasdair Roberts of Appendix Out, who also played on The Lioness, as well as members of Lullaby for the Working Class. Their influence, though, goes sadly undetectable.

Ghost Tropic was recorded at Dead Space Recording Studio in Lincoln, Nebraska, but sounds as though it were recorded live in a haunted hut somewhere in an Ecuadorian rainforest. At night. Take, for instance, the opener, "Lightning Risked It All," which begins with wooden percussion, a sparse acoustic wrenched out of tune after each note, and the lines, "Still no guides/ It's not a generous world/ It is a separate world/ The bad luck taste of the dark/ The broad luck of blood on the water." But these words aren't delivered with any rapidity: you're given enough time between each line to consider eternity. A random kickdrum might snap you back to reality, as might subtly increasing percussion. Or you might continue wandering off, set further adrift by the increasingly restless wooden clacks that sound like water dripping in puddles.

The rest of the album isn't much different, with the bulk of its tracks rarely progressing from where they begin. South American percussion usually offers tempered accompaniment along with a thunderous piano, both of which are occasionally complimented by a Spanish guitar, pedal steel, glockenspiel, eerie keyboard-chorus or shrill triangle. And Molina's voice inevitably enters in, usually after the one-minute mark, to deliver, in a death-bed rasp, lines such as, "Death as it shook you/ You gave it a fool's look/ You said I am an empty page to you" ("The Body Burned Away"), or, "Simply to live, that is my plan/ In a city that breaks us/ I will say nothing" ("No Limits on the Words").

But what really holds the album together-- perhaps better than the choice of instruments, lyrics, or Molina's voice-- are the tropical birds. Unlike, say, Phish or Quasi, Molina doesn't tactlessly plop a mess of birds in the middle of his album. Instead, birdsong slides in now and then, reminding you where you are (the tropics, fool). Only occasionally do the chirps reach a cacophony, as on the two instrumental tracks entitled "Ghost Tropic," where the birds sound as though they've been awaked by the unsettling music emanating from the hut.

None of the eight tracks that comprise Ghost Tropic are true songs. They're more like movements that make up the larger whole of the album, which acts as a 51-minute song. There are no tangible choruses; at best, you'll hear a couple lines repeated two or three times. In short, this is a mood piece. As such, it'll suit your needs perfectly at times, and incompletely at others. The two 12-minute tracks that essentially end the album-- separated only by one of the short instrumentals-- won't seem long enough for you one day, and will be horrendously sluggish and repetitive on another. It's like watching a Brita filter a liter of water: sometimes you're too damn thirsty to wait, so you give in to tap water; other times you hold out, knowing that your patience will make the experience entirely satisfying.

-Ryan Kearney