Pitchfork

What's the difference between psych-rock in 1967 and 2002? It's the drugs, man. Chiefly, the folks who used to trip the visions fantastic via brown ones and orange ones have mellowed out on a cannabis tip. Freak-outs have been replaced by blissful highs, and acid flameouts like Brian Wilson's and Syd Barrett's have been replaced by stoner warlocks like Yume Bitsu and Richard Youngs. Or, if the hemp weed isn't your thing, just try slacking a bit more and take it easy. Today's psychedelic experience is peace, love and very, very slow tempos. And it can be a beautiful thing, brother.

Nagisa Ni Te is the main event for Japanese hippie-titan and Org Records head Shinji Shibayama. Shibayama's been at it since the 1980s, when he started playing hyped up dada-psych with Idiot O'Clock and the more toned-down Hallelujahs. Well before mystic folk became fodder for VW commercials, Shibayama was conjuring up the spirits of Tim Buckley and Tim Hardin to the delight of the Japanese psychedelic scene. Nagisa Ni Te carries on that tradition, opting for natural highs and frequent moments of naïveté via slightly out-of-tune vocals and perfectly amateur acoustic guitar dedications. Shibayama started the band as a solo venture, but has gradually included his girlfriend Takeda Masako and various percussionists, as well as working with members of Eastern psych powers Maher Shalal Hash Baz.

Feel is the band's fourth album, and is generally a step in a clearer direction, even if its relative clarity never really threatens to push the music into mainstream realms. The instrumentation is quite full, featuring guitar, percussion, classic Leslie organ and group vocals to emphasize general communal harmony. All of the lyrics are ir Japanese, and all of the songs are very slow, so any disorienting sensations you experience here might be due to more than just the forest green haze (which radiates not just from the rather gorgeous cover).

Opening epic "The New World" starts things with a brief brainfreeze, as feedback guitar and backwards cymbals introduce a very earnest ballad-dirge. Pixie-vocalist Masako carries the solemn tune, as Shibayama strums his guitar and provides distant backing vocals. The prevailing mood is quite close to low-key Sigur Rós, or any number of symphonic post-Floyd balladeers. Masako never even attempts to inject any extraneous passion into the song, and comes across as being completely content to drag alongside her partner in carefree melancholy. When the mellotron strings come in, things take a turr for the spacey, but the fact remains this is pretty peaceful stuff.

"Strength of the Wind" pulls out all the retro stops, pumping up the mandolin and Leslie switches to summon the ghosts of the Small Faces and The Band, while simultaneously staying true to Nagisa Ni Te's folkish roots. This time, Shibayama takes the lead, and his modest tenor is a bit more confident, though never more aggressive than a child of nature should be. It's still a dirge, and when the ocarina comes in, straight out of Sherwood Forest, medieval chanson becomes the mode of choice. The backing vocals are still quite thick, and though the clear stereo separation betrays the modern recording, this tune could have been performed exactly as it appears here any time ir the last 35 years.

Since most of the tunes share the same basic feeling of molasses-lader harmony, small variations tend to stick out. "Morning Glory" plays up the haunting triangle resonance and the elastic slide-guitar accompaniment; "Speed of Fish," featuring the Boredoms' Seiichi Yamamoto on 'seaweed guitar,' emphasizes the pattering percussion and ambient overtones floating around the band. Closer "Stars" features a full ensemble of dual drummers, guitars, piano, mandolin and Leslie organ, and is probably the closest to an uplifting anthem as you'll find on Feel. Shibayama sings of the "ancient light of stars" and "gazing at the retreating sail" of some distant ship over music that is emotional without ever becoming maudlin. Reference points might be solo George Harrison or, again, Sigur Rós or early Small Faces, but the story is the same: benign psych-folk can cure your ills, and if it doesn't, at least it's got a shot at curing your insomnia. That's not an insult, but you should know Nagisa Ni Te are quite comfortably numb.