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Julian Lynch’s sophomore album ‘Mare’ had us floored with its fuzzy, transcendent devotional songs, and we weren’t the only ones. Since then Lynch’s music has found its way into far more places than he probably expected, and there is quite rightly a great deal of anticipation circling latest full-length ‘Terra’. Thankfully the more expanded sound exhibited on recent live appearances is almost nowhere to be seen, and this brand new collection of songs is just as personal, spacious and weird as we’ve come to expect from Lynch. In fact it might be the most restrained of all his records to date; once the initial Eastern-tinged blast of ‘Terra' subsides, space is cleared for Lynch’s peculiarly composed vision to crawl through the next half an hour slowly and with purpose. It’s with an unusual armory of instruments too; the clarinet is still here, which is weird enough in this kind of music , but when pitted against a stark synthesizer melody on ‘Ground’ we’re reminded what is so singular about Lynch’s sound. There is something almost Vincent Gallo-like about these simple but utterly perfect vignettes, and that’s no bad thing. Anyone who heard ‘When’ or Gallo’s soundtrack work knows how deeply affecting that music can be, and it seems that Lynch has been gifted this similar rare talent. ‘Terra’ was composed while Lynch was living away from it all in Madison, and there is a feeling of beautiful isolation, of small-town Blue Velvet life recreated with a 4-track recorder in a bedroom, and that’s pretty much all I want to hear right now. (Boomkat)