CHROMA KEY

Here it comes — the third, if I'm not mistaken, parcel of chrome-plated melancholy from Kevin Moore, formerly the keyboardist of DREAM THEATER and now a freelance composer and experimenter. "Graveyard Mountain Home" is a cold, sterile liquid gleaming with a mercurial sheen. Beneath the depressive, oppressive cover lies equally depressive content. The impressions are akin to watching a David Lynch film — as if someone behind your back is silently turning a key in a lock (CHROMA KEY?), opening a door into an empty room where everything — walls, floor, ceiling — is covered in rusty tile, where it smells of rubbing alcohol and a scalpel. Listening to the sounds of "Graveyard Mountain Home," only the most resilient listener won't be seized by chills. This is not limp, tedious ambient that drags along the edge of consciousness as a curtain of noise. Nor is it dull progressive, with its perpetually broken, zigzag-like unmelodic melodies. "Graveyard Mountain Home" is art-avant-garde — the barely audible music of the dead.