"You know what? These reviewers these days have it too easy! They get sent free CDs and all they have to do is string together a bunch of poorly chosen references to bands people already know, or even to some backwater jugband nobody's ever heard of to increase their 'indie cred!' In my day, we had to walk 12 miles uphill both ways in freezing rain to purchase the latest popular ditties on wax cylinder! Then we had to transcribe every goddamned note and analyze the chord progressions using figured bass! And may the good Lord take mercy on anyone who hadn't spent ten years at a fine conservatory, as we wrote to one audience and that was it. None of this "comprehensibility" hoo-hah!"

That's what I would say if I was born approximately 125 years ago and reviewed ragtime for a quarter-penny a word. As it is, I've only been with Pitchfork for a couple of months and, well, at least I get free CDs. I don't have to turn a crank to hear them, so quite often, I'll even fall asleep when I'm listening. If you've got a better solution for a sleep deficit of chasmic proportions than International Airport's Nothing We Can Control, I'd like to hear it. The problem is that I'll often inadvertently do so and miss out on some pretty cool stuff. Such was the case with Still Life with Peripheral Grey; initially, I couldn't stay awake for the whole thing. But it grew.

I do have tons of reference points for Olo's music, and some are pretty obscure, even by indie standards. However, my cred's still in the toilet, unless any of you have, by chance, been to any recent prog-rock conventions.

The ear-turning "Tennis on Swaymore" opens the album like a non-threatening, smoother version of the 1970s French band Magma, famous for their choral chants in a language invented by bandleader Christian Vander. It's got the same electric piano march-like quality to it, giving way to somewhat unexpected jazzy outbursts towards the end, but instead of a choir you wouldn't want to meet in a back alley, breathy male vocals in English get me all relaxed for a potential evening of lovin'. Of which I have many. Right.

"To Me You're like the Setting Sun" is easily the standout track, and it's almost a shame that it comes so early in the album. I understand there are sequencing issues to consider, but even the most hardened critic can blow their musical load too soon. I mean, I just want to be smooth, but after six-and-a-half minutes of the best candlelight and incense music I've ever heard, I'm just about done for.

Thankfully, the rest of the tracks are courteously crafted for gentle, late-night head-bobbing, and are of consistently high quality. The abundant keyboards are all of the vintage variety, with dizzyingly buzzy electric piano and tweaked-out Farfisa battling for tone control. The straight-up jazz drumming is tight as a starving boa constrictor, enhancing the sound in a way most "self-trained" sticksmen could never conceive. Fretless bass lays a satin sheet on this lover's bed, and clean octave melodies tuck you in and give you a goodnight kiss. With tongue.

I might hear quite a bit of condensed Soft Machine on this album. And Magma. And the Sea and Cake. And Eric Matthews. And National Health. But I've come to the conclusion that music this smoothly alluring can't be knocked around as easily as a simple combination of these (admittedly disparate) possible influences. As well as great songs, Life with Peripheral Grey has got tha flava. And you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, young man.

-Craig Griffith