Grouper: "Holding"
Liz Harris makes quiet music, but don’t mistake the word “quiet” for “incidental”. You can’t listen to Grouper‘s “Holding” while you do the dishes or run errands or read something on the internet or have a conversation. It’s performed gently, but it’s beautiful and sparse in a way that demands your attention. That’s partially because of Harris’ voice, which has previously been more of an atmospheric instrument—words were occasionally intelligible, but the lyrics usually played second fiddle to the emotional context provided by bleary textures. She harmonizes with herself, which is common Grouper practice, but the words don’t float away this time. They sit quietly at the forefront, muffled only by the prolonged, ringing notes emanating from her upright piano. With a creak—maybe from the piano, maybe a floorboard—she slowly, sparingly reveals an unadorned piano melody. When she starts singing, it’s not a voice you tune out. You lean toward it, attempting to comprehend every word she utters.
She illustrates quiet moments in the darkness, and even the happier-sounding ones are somehow devastating. She’s not just talking about being held in someone’s arms—she’s talking about disappearing in them. She’s nearly whispering, singing about tears on windows, drawing with blood, tides and moonlight, and “the morning when the sadness comes.” Her voice is so soft that it’s hard to fully understand what she’s singing, but you get the feeling the only warmth she acknowledges is the feeling of being held, and even that is fleeting. The album is called Ruins—she recorded it around the ruins of estates in Aljezur, Portugal. “Holding” ends with the sound of falling rain, a reminder that everything washes away and will eventually decay. It’s quiet music, and it threatens to crush you beneath its emotional heft.
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