You know, when I sort through the bags of letters Pitchfork readers from around the world send to me every day, I'm surprised at how many of you are asking, "Brendan, why Pitchfork?" Since this is my "infamous sixth review," as they call it around here, I think I should take some time out to answer the question that's on all of your minds. Contrary to what many of you have suggested, I didn't join up with Pitchfork to do high-quality work for a high-quality site. Look at this article, for example. So far, it's pure crap! No substance at all! There are even obvious lies! Nope, I'm interested in Pitchfork for the quantity, not the quality. Publishing four reviews every weekday is no small feat, and there's a certain hivelike quality to Pitchfork that enables this sort of efficiency. I think I have a certain mindless, dronelike quality that complements the general Pitchfork ethic quite well.

It's no surprise, then, that we Pitchfork workers tend to enjoy (at least more so than the general public) the sort of music that's characterized as "droning." There's something about a keyboardist leaning on one note for five minutes that reminds us of, oh, I dunno, the sound of record reviews being written. So, before I'm reassigned to the Built to Spill Adoration Division (Sector 6-B, to us), I'd like to pay my respects to Philadelphia's master-droners Bardo Pond.

The Bardos, anchored by sibling guitarists John and Michael Gibbons, have been playing the fuzzed-out stuff of stoner dreams since the mid-90's, joining the frighteningly well-endowed Matador Records clan early on. Although their flirtations with melody have produced absolutely heavenly music, as on their quasi-dream-pop masterpiece, 1997's Lapsed, they've always been allied first and foremost to experimentation, crushing distortion, and, of course, the drone. Their new album, Dilate, follows the course they've already plotted, making a few distinct detours along the way.

While previous albums gave a studio sheen to the noise, Dilate has a looser, more spontaneous feel to it. This allows a little more space to creep into the claustrophobia-inducing mix favored by the band. Thus, we now get to hear slow-building numbers like the first track, "Two Planes," which begins with a clean guitar accompanying multi-instrumentalist Isobel Sollenberger's violin. Layers of distortion and rippling effects are gradually added until the song begins to sound like a truly monstrous dirge. "Inside," another epic, propels itself with twangy, ramshackle picking, allowing the song to pick up some speed before it takes off into the stratosphere.

Along with this, there's also a newfound interest in acoustic guitars-- quite unexpected considering the band's usual effects-heavy treatments. The acoustics often work their way under the churning sea of distortion, plinking away distinctly within the bleary turmoil of "Aphasia." But just as often they're equal partners with the drones. On "Despite the Roar," haunting, heavily echoed tones bridge the gaps between deliberately spaced strums before both the acoustics and the electrics kick into a rhythm. Another excellent, unconventional track, "Favorite Uncle," proves that Sollenberger's brittle vocal melodies can survive apart from the sea of sound that usually surrounds them. She begins accompanied only by two acoustics-- singing forlornly out from what sounds like the inside of an abandoned tin can-- before the band crashes in.

Even within what seems to be familiar territory, the album's willingness to take risks can provide interesting new angles into the band's music. "Lb.," for example, begins with a lumbering dinosaur-on-acid riff. A few minutes into the song, most of the band falls out, and another plodding guitar figure enters. However, drummer Ed Farnsworth and bassist Clint Takeda immediately thrust this into double-time, throwing an invigorating splash of bongwater in the face of the complacent listener. While drones tend to become a bit predictable, there's an inherent instability in the music that keeps it vital most of the time.

Still, there's a druggy complacency that sometimes gets the better of them, allowing a menacing jam like the final track, "Ganges," to go on too long. The album's adventurousness can also go a bit overboard in, as it does in "Sunrise," which features backwards-echoing vocals and guitars that do little to help the song. "Swig" also departs from the Bardo formula with none-too-interesting results, opting for an Eastern-sounding sitar simulation. With all of its experimental angles pulling in different directions, Dilate also experiences a lack of cohesion that didn't really factor into the band's previous albums.

While it isn't quite as glorious as Lapsed, Dilate does offer a good deal of interesting material-- certainly enough to keep a hive like ours happy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go smear royal jelly on Schreiber's ass.

-Brendan Reid