Pitchfork

Non-shocker: I was disappointed the first few times I listened to Kate Bush's first new record in 12 years. Having spent some time recently wondering if the woman responsible for so much haunted, supernatural music might be producing some beacon of artistic integrity that would shine through layers of anticipation and cynicism, it was difficult to not be let down by the mundane discovery that, in fact, she's merely being herself here, writing more about everyday epiphanies than great cosmic truths. It's a pretty Zen lesson in expectation when I think about it, teaching me a thing or two about the pitfalls of hanging onto anything other than gradual enlightenment and a zero-sum world.

Aerial, a double album separated into chapters of A Sea of Honey and A Sky of Honey, is Bush's answer to a world outside expecting fireworks. That is, Aerial is no answer at all except to illuminate her love for her son, her life, and various distractions (everything from Elvis, to the joy of washing clothes, to the digits in pi). Musically, this is reflected in a uniformly low-key backdrop of piano, pastel rhythm section, and, of course, her own lush palette of vocal textures. Initially, many of the songs seem muted, passive, dated-- hardly reminiscent of Bush's previous adventures in hi-fi. Digging deeper, while the arrangements are hardly explosive-- a Renaissance string arrangement for "Bertie", birdsong in "Aerial Tal", subtle electronic touches in "Joanni"-- they're not so much dated as understated, as efficiently tied to their creator's idiosyncrasies as any in Bush's canon. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean they will leap out and grab unconverted listeners as the best moments on Hounds of Love or The Dreaming did, but then I wonder how many unconverted listeners are still following Bush's sensual trail these days.

Aerial's first disc (A Sea of Honey) begins in nondescript fashion with a torch song to Elvis (!) and a molasses-laden backing of big fat 80s rock drums, wispy synth cluster, electronic gamelan ping, and the driest rhythm guitar skank I've heard in 20 years. Still, there's a mysterious air about the song, especially as Bush cries, "the wind is whistling, the wind is whistling through the house." This song was chosen as a single, for what reasons I can't really imagine, but is a nice setup for the more interesting character study of the man with the "obsessive nature and deep fascination for numbers" on "Π". In fact, it's Bush's reading off the digits of the number that most interest me, stretching out some, crowding others into rapidly sung groups, all with some of the most expressive singing on the record. Likewise, on the piano-led ballad "Mrs. Bartoluzzi", she manages to sound fascinating while simply repeating the phrase "washing machine," and backing herself with superficially silly things like "slooshy sloshy, slooshy sloshy." I can't say I'm as taken with "Bertie" (about Bush's son) or "Joanni" (for Joan of Arc), both of which seem totally sincere, but overrun in pleasant, "tasteful" arrangements that never quite compel me enough to go back for repeated listens.

The second disc (A Sky of Honey) seems a bit more adventurous, which is fitting given that it's a song-cycle on the natural ebb and flow of life and the seasons. Beginning with a "Prelude" and "Prologue", Bush eases into her most subtly symphonic music on record, backing herself with only piano and soft, modulating synth pulse. Her teasing lines, "it's gonna be so good," referring to the passing of summer into fall, are both poetic and playful, and fit perfectly the sense of effortless euphoria throughout the disc. Still, I might have wished for a bit more spark: "An Architect's Dream", "Sunset", and "Nocturn", despite maintaining the narrative of her concept, are a bit too steeped in uber-light adult contemporary sheen for my tastes. By the time of the closing title track, my ears are lightly glazed over, and its frail "rock" section does little justice to lines like "I want to be up on the roof, I feel I gotta get up on the roof!" At one point, Bush trades cackles with a bird's song, suggesting she's quite happy with her simple life as a mother and artist. Far be it from me to criticize happy endings, but in musical terms, a comfortable, even-keeled existence sometimes comes out as isolated and ordinary art.