s a devout worshipper at the fickle altar of popular music, there are always mixed (even conflicting) emotions when news filters through that yet another artist has decided to embark on a solo voyage, flying the creative nest (albeit often only temporarily) and pursuing a life of solitary contemplation. If you happen to harbour some affection for the given artist’s existing oeuvre, a spell away from their fellow band mates can be viewed in two ways; either it signals a thrilling opportunity for them to develop their individual sound freed from the co-operative shackles of competing egos and record company expectations, or it is an exercise in profound self-indulgence only tolerated because of their previous, profitable incarnations. If, on the other hand, you’re not already a fully paid up member of the original band’s fan-club then solo work tends to invoke an acute sense of indifference at worst or a speculative and mild curiosity at best. It is therefore with all these judgemental caveats in mind that we come to the debut solo record, Ragland, from Calexico’s John Convertino, an album that will likely entreat the full gambit of emotions detailed above from those with any interest in the contemporary American leftfield. If you ask me, these things are always a disaster…

Seeing as I’m waxing lyrical about the differing reactions Convertino’s lone excursion may instinctively provoke, it seems only fair that I stick my colours firmly to the wall. Whilst I’m undoubtedly familiar with elements of Calexico’s back catalogue (predominantly 2002’s Feast of Wire), I’d in no way consider myself an aficionado of their sound and as such am left free to judge Ragland purely on its own merits. Buckle up, I’m going in…

Recorded in its entirety at Convertino’s Arizona home, the first thing that hits you on listening to the album is its dusty, sun-baked demeanour. Structured predominantly around delicate piano compositions, Convertino employs a consciously restrained instrumental palate with which to garnish the eight-track results and in doing so conjures an eminently thirsty sound that whilst dry, is in no way arid.

Expunged of vocal contributions, Ragland initially passes by the ear with minimum contact, as themes and melodies are rendered lint-like in their seeming insubstantiality. Yet, sharing a definite spirit with Jan Jelinek’s Loop Finding Jazz Records, these first impressions soon transpire to be woefully misjudged as the ear becomes mesmerised by the deceptively naïve arrangements that together weave an aural tapestry significantly grander than the apparent sum of its parts. Convertino opens Ragland with the brittle percussion and forcefully sonorous piano of “Curb,” wherein initial bijou melodies are gradually tarnished by the brooding accumulative rhythms. Although it may well be down to prior knowledge of the records friable birthplace, “Curb” nevertheless exudes an almost heat-haze quality which goes on to permeate throughout the entire record and instil each track with the aural equivalent of disrupted dust dancing in the sunlight.

Continuing in the subdued shadow cast by “Curb,” Convertino shifts his gaze from the overtly ponderous (and, at times, threatening) to the heartbreakingly mournful perspective of “Museo” and “Street Turn River.” Whilst the former of these assumes a marked detachment that actively segregates the listener at arms length from the composition, it is the latter piece that ensnares both ear and soul in a redolent, yet imperious, fashion. Sharing a gift for conjuring tacit emotional impact from seemingly simple piano parts with the likes of Chopin, Michael Nyman and even Chilly Gonzales, “Street Turn River” sees Convertino delivering an esculently succinct song that combines an undulating ivory foundation with a truly captivating lead melody. Masterful, unobtrusive and emotionally porous, “Street Turn River” deserves to be cherished for what it is and represents; a highly gifted musician hitting pay-dirt through a composition of profound timelessness.

Elsewhere, “Bell Curve” beefs up proceedings through some almost break inflected drums, “End Thee” fuses a strangely optimistic melody onto some Bill Murray in Ghostbusters (you know what I mean…) staccato key ribbing, whilst “When Mass Was Said In Latin” provides an effulgent highlight that recalls the fresh air thrill of Aphex Twin’s “Avril 14th” amongst the digital detritus of 2001’s Drukqs. By the time the Daniel Kelly penned “Buffalo Room” stumbles teasingly around the US national anthem, Ragtime will have gracefully embedded itself deep within your subconscious thanks to Convertino’s adroit blend of minimal soundscapes and finely tuned, grade-A writing talent. So where does that leave us in terms of solo albums? As I said at the start, these things are always a blinding success and I had no doubt that Ragland would further bolster my outlook…