Oneohtrix Point Never

Warning: Listening to Replica may cause unforeseen side effects. The new album of Oneohtrix Point Never (a.k.a Daniel Lopatin) has been known to induce cabin fever, belief in the afterlife and visions of extraterrestrials. Listeners should not operate complicated machinery. Consumption of alcohol while listening to Replica is strongly discouraged. Blast the album and children will be afraid to take your Halloween candy.

Replica is not intended for easy listening. The music is as morbid as its album cover; both capture the pathos of a man looking into his own grave. The title track shows Lopatin at his gloomiest and most beautiful, layering bitter arpeggios with the sounds of whirring lasers. Opener “Andro” builds toward rainforest cacophony, coordinating ambient noise in a way that mimics the animalism of Colin Stetson’s circular breathing. During “Remember,” electronic keyboards are made to sound like Gothic church chorales. Throughout, human voices and mechanical noise imitate each other’s sounds until it’s no longer clear what is dead and what is living.

Compared to his previous albums, Replica is the most immersive. The songs are shorter, but the transitions are so smooth that individual songs need not be demarcated. The album feels like one extended journey, starting above ground and ending in disembodied heaven. Rhythmic and melodic backbones last for multiple songs, amplifying even the smallest changes in key and time signature. Like the best of Philip Glass, time passes without notice. With the exception of “Child Soldier,” the beginning of which might as well be an Atari soundtrack, Lopatin exercises beautiful restraint. The album drinks like a steaming pot of hallucinogenic tea whose effect is otherworldly yet grounded by familiar sensations.

Music press often depicts Oneohtrix Point Never as the man revitalizing the German krautrock popularized by Can and Neu! during the ‘70s. Such comparisons are apt, but they understate the freshness of Lopatin’s work; Replica heavily samples DVD anthologies of 1990s television advertisements, but Lopatin’s composition perfectly streamlines and integrates his source material. He draws from the ethereal krautrock of Tangerine Dream, but manages to make the music paradoxically tactile. “Nassau” feels waterlogged; sounds scatter as if heard through oceanic depths. Throughout “Submersible,” the volume increases and decreases along a sine-curve, as if the music’s source travels a circular path. These tricks allow Lopatin to create his graveyard aesthetic, frightening yet serene. Just make sure not to let the children listen.