The Magician’s Private Library is a work both indebted to and deadened by the production of Dave Sitek. Struggling to retain a semblance of self, Holly Miranda is like a pressed flower, squeezed out by the clamour of competing sounds and textures that the TV On The Radio man has marshalled. Still, something of Miranda’s innate romance and sensitivity remains, her observations invariably tear-stained, her heart as fragile as a matchstick Eiffel Tower.
Doling out tender hits of brass, guitar and electronics, this is music to score the sleepwalker’s midnight stumblings, one minute wrapping us in the tender embrace of ‘Sweet Dreams’, the next summoning the twitchy paranoia of a David Lynch nightmare (‘No Just Is’). Elsewhere, there’s something of the Cocteau Twins’ anaesthetising allure in the woozy atmospherics of ‘Slow Burn Treason’, while ‘Everytime I Go To Sleep’ sounds like a strung-out Sundays, or defanged Asobi Seksu.
It’s all perfectly nice, occasionally downright hypnotic, but the sedative soon begins to wane as the album trickles on. One problem is Miranda’s voice: gentle as a summer’s breeze, it creates just as little stir. We need music to have hard edges, to hurt us occasionally, but instead of the full-blooded roar they deserve, songs like ‘Waves’ are conveyed in an anaemic whisper. We’ll excuse the timidity of intent on this occasion, but next time out the cotton wool wrapping can come off.
KEY TRACK: ‘WAVES’