Geogaddi is an album we have listened to hundreds of times over the last twenty years, but each play still offers something both new and inexplicably familiar, with a shadow of the disconcerting.
Duo Boards of Canada was formed in the late 1980s by brothers Michael Sandison and Marcus Eoin, growing an ardent following through private presses before joining the iconic Warp label in 1998 for their debut Music Has the Right to Children (which was actually jointly released with Skam Records). Their debut was a critical and commercial success; however, the duo retreated from public life, declining interviews and live shows, further adding to the air of mystery.
They recorded its successor, Geogaddi, in total secrecy and seclusion (Michael Sandison described the process as “pretty much hermetically sealed") between 1999 and 2001 at their own Hexagon Sun studio, located somewhere in rural Scotland. While their debut was an innovator in the resurgence of interest in ambient and lo-fi electronic music, four years later Geogaddi felt like they had set course for somewhere entirely different.
For us, Geogaddi’s biggest overarching theme is its duality. Sonically it is just beautiful music, with sun-bleached tape distortions, natural decays, and vintage analogue hues that ebb and flow — but it is also so eerie and foreboding. Any moment of the album is the perfect soundtrack for a sunny car journey, but the long looping compositions grow hypnotic, and you start to hear the more haunted energy in the layers. Many tracks incorporate subliminal messaging, reversed vocals, and numerological references — including recurring appearances of the number 666 and allusions to occult themes. The production is just so unique: methodical, electronic, and precise, but also homespun and composed of well-worn textures. It is a suite of degraded sounds that fall somewhere between memory and dream.
Without deriding the album's technical prowess — especially as we have no idea exactly how they made it or how complicated it necessarily is — Geogaddi is an album that is foremost rich in emotion. The electronic elements never dazzle; in fact, they sound less and less like electronics at all the more you listen to it. The way tracks evolve and then disappear again is hugely evocative, especially in the beautiful tones of pieces like "Julie and Candy" and "The Beach at Redpoint." Proudly embracing imperfection, the hazed-out samples and field recordings of birds and nature just add to the density. The brothers’ refusal to explain their work has allowed Geogaddi to maintain its mystique over two decades, resisting easy interpretation. Man, we have no idea if we even understand it at all — but it’s a headspace that we always want to get back into.
Like long-lost broadcasts from somewhere entirely mysterious, Geogaddi remains a beautifully affecting listening experience. Wouldn't it be amazing to hear from them again soon?