Freedom | Amen Dunes

The thoroughly imagined breakthrough of Damon McMahon croons, twists, and rewards.

Freedom

Transcendence and triumph are as much an everyday reality as pain in Damon McMahon's Freedom, under the moniker Amen Dunes. Before his cawing voice swoops toward us, we're met by a child loudly declaring from his tree-house to his raggle-taggle gang that the old guard is done. "This is your time! Now go out and get it!" It's easy to imagine the kid earlier staring down his mirror, pitching the vision to himself as much as to anyone else. 

The colors turn warm and McMahon's wry voice shuffles toward us in "Blue Rose". Most clearly enunciating when thinking of someone else,"Your love came over me!" he begins a line across a crowded room, stretching his voice for our attention and finishes breathy, punctuated, and too close: "I can't catch a break." In a crowded room he whispers in your ear. His vulnerability is comforting and unnerving. 

The personality of his voice is the obvious centerpiece and it's easy to forget that there's so much jangling sound carrying us around the room.

Each time you see the stage the band seems a little larger. 

He’s moondancing and talking at/to you and only breaks direct eye contact with you to tilt his head back and close his eyes, swaying back and leaning into the current of Steve Marion's guitar. 

This Jay Gatsby is telling you his life and epiphanies and torment but the room is too full. You catch details but aren’t sure what he was referring to, or if you misheard. This party is all his and all at once just a background avenue to speak with just you. 

In the middle of forlorn story-time in "Miki Dora", Damon’s quivering voice looks past the horizon, “These chills keep me clear .....I’m getting on fine.” Each new verse and layer of sound heightens his earnest voice, until it’s in the final repeating line “come roll around with me” in a chorus of voices beyond his own that he seems relaxed and nested into a broader vision. Memory no longer serves as prophet, and looking beyond the shifting candelabra to the eyes of those around presents a way forward. 

On Saturdarah, the cool lights dim. He pulls up a chair and digests murky self-doubt. There could still be a party rooms away, but we’re leaning against the mantle as he slurs out confessionals. Rooms and house fade away a bit. We're listening with our eyes closed. The grass is on my back as we hear the washing of the beach lulling me into wondering how long ago we left the rest of the group. 

The album grows with focus and inertia, and we're gifted in the dense and strange estate with kind reassurance: "I do it for you." Halfway through the all easy strumming of the perfect title track, "Believe", you feel an upbeat shift and wonder if the party had ever started before this song. Feet are moving, you realize your head’s been bobbing along and he’s set aside confessional burdens and insists “I’m not down.” 

His comforts are both in memories, and in asserting his own positive step forward: “‘When things go black / I’ve got you / She’d say/ Keep steady / Do it.” Our own hands support each other.

When the false ending of "Freedom" breaks to a returned energy, it’s hard to tell whats a victory lap and what is a warm up for where he’s headed next. “To fall to tears, and I’m not teasing / I’m not down." He’s dancing because he’s building something. 

Singularity | Jon Hopkins

Jon Hopkins' focused release, Singularity, is a cerebral and immersive journey. 

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New article coming soon.