- Melody’s Echo Chamber
- Melody’s Echo Chamber
- Fat Possum
Melody Prochet, the classically trained Parisian, moves in ethereal, mysterious ways. Her bilingual lips move, but I can't make out what she's saying. French? English? A breeze of reverb muffles her possibly vital musings. Even Is That What You Said is a wordless experiment in backward-sound synth-psychedelia.
Why does Prochet, a young and beautiful singer who writes words for her dream-pop and Mars-rock project Melody's Echo Chamber, go to special effort to mask her lyrics? A style thing, perhaps. Her otherwise sublime trip – silk sheets in the space lab – is produced and mixed by Kevin Parker, of the hypno-groovers Tame Impala. Let's blame him for softly obscuring her pretty vocals. Or let's chalk it up to a playful coyness on the part of Prochet, call her coolly inscrutable language "Melodese," and move on.
Because the meaning of first track (and lead single ) I Follow You is clear enough – she sings of "trust," I heard that. The music is a gentle whirlpool of paisley jangle and modernized far-out textures. The melody is languid 1960s pop; the melancholy is subtle. Marvelous stuff
The hazy Crystallized uses broken electronica sounds and a looped trippy bass line in back. You Won't Be Missing That Part of Me sports Prochet at her breathiest, with the chilled singer cooing about a lover leaving. The snare beat is crisp; the vibe is sci-fi. Imagine Best Coast's breathy Bethany Cosentino flying first class to Normandy … on NASA Airlines. "Hello, this is your captain. We'll be flying a jillion miles high, and in unusual directions. The stewardess will be along shortly with Tang and psychoactive thrills. Her name is Melody. She speaks Melodese, so don't ask her any questions. Sit back and enjoy the ride."
The album's landing is the trippiest of the dippiest. Be Proud of Your Kids is kaleidoscopic pop set to a tight, brittle beat, with a child gurgling gibberish in the forefront. Wild stuff in the kid's head, you have to think. Like Prochet's ideas, it translates fine – from the mouths of babes.
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