Boards of Canada – Inferno

As its title suggests, the first album from Boards of Canada in 13 years is a dark reaction to uncertain, sinister times. A foundation of unsettling, decaying fragments are offset by chaotic vocal manipulations and crisp beats. Where woozy synths once offered warm nostalgia, now the production is often pointedly sharp, cutting through the haze with warped new wave and skittering percussion.

Inferno is split into 18 discrete tracks, but operates as a continuous 70-minute suite; a long-form meditation on a chaotic world that refuses to explain itself. Contorted vocal samples feature heavily on the first half, usually with the dark forebodings of forgotten wisdom. There are prophecies about capricorns, proclamations of the absolute truth, disembodied chants, and reams of other unintelligible ephemera. This reaches a fever pitch on Father and Son as a discombobulated conversation takes place in constantly shifting pitches, like an Avalanches song produced by the Safdie brothers. 'I love you' never sounded less comforting.

Despite the mood swings and diverse sonic palette, the way BoC warp disparate sounds into some sort of cohesive shape remains their most impressive skill. The fragmented snatches of vaporous synth on Hydrogen Helium Lithium Leviathan give way to cut-glass beats before melodic phrases appear, dovetailing in unexpectedly satisfying ways. They continually wring clarity and harmony from unlikely sources; the murky woodwinds and pitter-pattering UK Garage percussion of Prophecy at 1420 MHz, retro-futurist synths on Naraka and All Reason Departs, the mild panic of a tannoy voice on The Process that gives way to gentle, childlike chatter.

The Word Becomes Flesh is a masterclass in layering and demonstrates the duo's tinkering prowess and ability to forge a groove from anything. An early vibe of lounge-funk is undercut by the distant whirr of a malfunctioning hardware unit, before vocal samples interrupt, this time cut up into melodic sense, talking about eyes, embryos, blood vessels. It all builds to an intricate, slinky slab of danceable darktronica.

The second half of the album settles into a more familiar mode, with less vocals and more considered synth work; feather-lite motifs washing in and out of frame; sparse, meandering soundscapes and an undercurrent of gloomy unease. Inferno may the wonkiest and most unnerving album from the duo, not uniformly menacing, but one undoubtedly apt for the current climate in its restless energy. Hope may be in short supply, but at least we've got a brilliant soundtrack for the apocalypse.

Listen to: The Word Becomes Flesh, Hydrogen Helium Lithium Leviathan