The digipak is washed in watery greens. As usual, I press play.

Pwoosh, two, three, four, pwoosh, two, three, four, pwoosh-psssst-pwoosh, three, four, pwoosh... and just like that, I'm treading water somewhere between New York City and Australia. I once heard that when you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do is fall in love. I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm reviewing a space rock LP, but unfortunately, A.M. radio never offered any advice regarding my current situation.

I suppose I should have guessed that "Hungry Ghosts" is less a bandname than a euphemism for aural riptides that lap so calmly against your toes that you aren't alert to being swept down, under, and out to sea. Alone, Alone's gentle, contemplative sounds expertly hide that they're actually the product of clashing currents. Their fiddles are infused with folk tradition, and pine for the instrumental trio's homeland of Australia. Fancy compasses and navigational devices place the band at a mid-Atlantic latitude and longitude where the distant shore of the outback is held in plain sight, with the Dirty Three as an obvious marker. But the Ghosts remain adrift, often tugged north and west by NYC avant-garde jazz and art rock.

The pacing and tone of the Hungry Ghosts recalls floating in deep sea waters between the two continents that laid the groundwork for this album. The snare reminds me that time is passing while me and my reflection are out here in middle of the ocean, battling giant eels every now and then, or spearing sea bass with sharply tuned percussions for the evening's filet.

This album expertly frustrates with bittersweet repetitions of melodies you remember from somewhere sad. But you might as well abandon any fantasies of romantic castaways, as you'll be all alone on this voyage-- or rather Alone, Alone. And the Hungry Ghosts don't mean the "I just broke up with my boyfriend" kind of alone; their repetition assures that they're referencing a more existential variety of the word.

A bass drum bobs along now and then to keep the often sparse arrangements afloat; weighty voids sketch a poignant futility lacking in the Dirty Three's sweeping overdubs. Occasionally, the plucked meanderings seem content to play buoy, but they eventually give way to an aching for the shore, present in the violin's laments-- twang-tinged human-like cries that recall the most accessible moments of Loren Mazzacane-Connor's work. An infrequent cymbal shimmers as melodies repeat and shift in tidal cycles, punctuated by the neat dances of waltzing schooners. Yes, it rolls like a river toward a shimmering Atlantis, and did I mention your eyes are as deep as the ocean?

Stop it!! Please!

I hate water metaphors, and musical water metaphors are the worst kind. I want to tell myself, "There's no need to get carried away" (out to sea), except that there totally is. This is my plight. I promise you, I wouldn't go there (out to sea) if it wasn't absolutely necessary. It's hard to write about a record using ocean metaphors without gagging, but right now, it's hard for me to write at all-- my notebook is soaking wet, and putting a pen to the page just rips the paper.

Alone, Alone begins with a resigned, methodical plucking that is weak with age, yet continues onward. This is followed by strings that know more of the sad story Alone, Alone begins to tell, their bows tugged with equal force by Australian folk tradition and a stubborn lump in the back of the throat. The song, "Back for More I Go," serves as the first of three movements in the album's opening suite, "Before Then."

The record is comprised of stories, both familiar and strange. So, in the same way it's like the ocean-- except without being big or filled with water-- it's also like a rock opera, just without the rock or the opera. Or lyrics. It's rooted in both ambience and tradition in a way that reminds me of Two Dollar Guitar's Train Songs, another project of label owner, co-producer, and guest musician Steve Shelley. However, the Hungry Ghosts' instrumentation borrows less from rock, and its arrangements are unquestionably more expressive.

The titles are subtle and apt. Section one, "Before Then," realizes its place as a first chapter as the Ghosts blissfully play out their naïve prelude, "Trying to Lift a Rock with a Bottle on Your Head." Following a brief interlude, section two's titles, "Reading Your Mail" and "No Prior Convictions," are suggestive of life events that could propel someone into this great wide alone.

The remainder of the album works through minor blues and dissonant greens, but if I take a step back, the record's tide-like repetitions seem, in many ways, to be more about the passing of time itself. Specifics of how that time is filled are left to the listener. There isn't a lot of sex, violence or drama here, but I'd rather not describe the record as lacking passion because few recordings do such exquisite justice to the moments in between.

The third and final movement includes a progression of tracks titled "Float," "Coma," "Remember What It Was like to Float (?)," "Nothing has to Happen," and finally, "Black Out." All of a sudden, I find myself once again at the first track, "Back for More I Go." I've misplaced my land-legs, but I do remember what it was like to float. As usual, I press play.

-Kristin Sage Rockermann