| Which is why, when the next two numbers -- “Petrel” and “Mariner” -- quietly stun the listener the way they do, it’s a low-key delight. “Petrel” does it with a sing-song seven-note figure played on an accordion over and over again, “Mariner” with buckets of sloshing reverb-for-its-own-sake; both are utterly charming, wholly uneventful, practically nonexistent exercises in emptiness. Played in a room where a person is doing some routine cleaning or paying the monthly bills, these quiet set-pieces do what New Age music is supposed to do but seldom does: that is, they create a profoundly restful mood. You can’t tap your toes to it, you can’t pump your fist in the air to it, and you’d have to be even more excitable than me to get evangelical about it. Instead, one finds, in these inconsequential pieces, something subtly compelling and memorable. The whole second side, with its listlessly plucked banjo and flurries of tambourines, is something I’ve found myself returning to almost compulsively. It’s got the hypnotic allure of a snowy television screen. Some people don’t see any allure in that sort of thing; if you’re one of those people, then Ocean isn’t for you. But if you’re sometimes given to staring at motionless things for longer than you’d generally care to admit and most free jazz leaves your nerves feeling frazzled, then Ocean is worth looking into. |