Geogaddi is the second full length LP by Scottish experimental electronic music duo Boards of Canada. Released on February 8th, 2002, it marked a significant shift in tone from the more upbeat Music Has the Right to Children that came before it, in part inspired by the September 11th terror attacks that occurred in 2001 and the post-millenium paranoia that accompanied them. The darker, borderline disturbing atmospheres of the album make it my absolute favorite by the group and an absolute gem of the early 2000s.
Boards of Canada is from the northern Scottish coast village of Cullen, and the group was formed by brothers Michael and Marcus Eoin Sandison. They are known for their 70s influenced synthesizer music, harkening back to electronic music’s roots. They often deliberately use outdated synthesizer equipment and mixing technology, such as magnetic tape, to achieve ethereal tones that explore ideas of memory, nostalgia, and the human experience. Heavily utilizing samples, the duo often incorporates narration samples from nature documentaries produced by the National Film Board of Canada they grew up watching, from which the group takes their name. They are known for their droning synth lines contrasted with repetitive hypnotic drum machine grooves and spliced vocal samples that make for a hypnotic, out-of-body listening experience.
That last bit could not hold more true for Geogaddi. It is certainly hypnotic and out-of-body, but undoubtedly terrifying at the same time. If Music Has The Right To Children felt like an ethereal and weightless high that let you ride upon its gentle breeze, Geogaddi is a bad trip, a REALLY bad trip, a black hole of nightmares that sucks you further and further into its grasp until your screaming ceases when you have met the event horizon. It's fairly indescribable (though I still will try, that's the whole point of this article), as the type of fear it generates is not the kind of overt fear some other music tries to elicit. It doesn’t make excessive use of dissonance; in fact, most of the time the intervals used are rather consonant and pleasing in theory. However, the timbre of the analog synths, the light tape hiss, the drilling sensation of the drum machines, and the reverb laden spliced and chopped vocal samples tell an entirely different story. It makes you sort of uncomfortable, but in the most absolute perfect and awe-inspiring way.
It doesn’t exactly make sense for me to do a track-by-track breakdown like I usually do; it’s simply not the way the album is experienced. The album is 23 tracks long, although half of those tracks are short interludes or song “vignettes” that aren’t usually much more than a minute long (and often much shorter). To me, it feels like the album gets progressively more disturbing, as if falling deeper and deeper into a nightmare, until you are left in a weightless state by the final couple songs.
There aren't really traditional lyrics; rather, there are often chopped up vocal samples, some of which are tuned and vocoded. These vocal samples are eerie and often a bit demonic sounding, but not in a deep growling way, but rather in an unsettling way that lies deep within the uncanny valley. I don’t think this creepiness is unintentional, seeing as the album has multiple references to cults and numerology; the song “1969” has references to David Khoresh and the Branch Davidians in its vocal sampling, which is heavily vocoded and processed. Also, the album is 66 minutes and 6 seconds long, so there is that too. The last track is complete silence too, 1 minute and 47 seconds long, titled “Magic Window.” The unsettling feeling of the album is summarized perfectly by its kaleidoscopic album cover, which really does justice to the often disorienting listening experience.
That last bit could not hold more true for Geogaddi. It is certainly hypnotic and out-of-body, but undoubtedly terrifying at the same time. If Music Has The Right To Children felt like an ethereal and weightless high that let you ride upon its gentle breeze, Geogaddi is a bad trip, a REALLY bad trip, a black hole of nightmares that sucks you further and further into its grasp until your screaming ceases when you have met the event horizon. It's fairly indescribable (though I still will try, that's the whole point of this article), as the type of fear it generates is not the kind of overt fear some other music tries to elicit. It doesn’t make excessive use of dissonance; in fact, most of the time the intervals used are rather consonant and pleasing in theory. However, the timbre of the analog synths, the light tape hiss, the drilling sensation of the drum machines, and the reverb laden spliced and chopped vocal samples tell an entirely different story. It makes you sort of uncomfortable, but in the most absolute perfect and awe-inspiring way.
It doesn’t exactly make sense for me to do a track-by-track breakdown like I usually do; it’s simply not the way the album is experienced. The album is 23 tracks long, although half of those tracks are short interludes or song “vignettes” that aren’t usually much more than a minute long (and often much shorter). To me, it feels like the album gets progressively more disturbing, as if falling deeper and deeper into a nightmare, until you are left in a weightless state by the final couple songs.
There aren't really traditional lyrics; rather, there are often chopped up vocal samples, some of which are tuned and vocoded. These vocal samples are eerie and often a bit demonic sounding, but not in a deep growling way, but rather in an unsettling way that lies deep within the uncanny valley. I don’t think this creepiness is unintentional, seeing as the album has multiple references to cults and numerology; the song “1969” has references to David Khoresh and the Branch Davidians in its vocal sampling, which is heavily vocoded and processed. Also, the album is 66 minutes and 6 seconds long, so there is that too. The last track is complete silence too, 1 minute and 47 seconds long, titled “Magic Window.” The unsettling feeling of the album is summarized perfectly by its kaleidoscopic album cover, which really does justice to the often disorienting listening experience.
Yet despite all its eerie-ness and references to the occult, Geogaddi is a deeply beautiful work, and it's no wonder so many critics have raved about it before me. It’s a spiritual experience to listen to, transporting the listener out of their body and to an ever changing soundscape that both awes them and terrifies them (even without the use of substances!). It’s an album that I will continue to revisit after listening for the first time earlier this year, and an album I think you should listen to at least once before you inevitably pass. Perhaps that’s what makes Geogaddi so terrifying: the fact that the vast and confusing imagery it presents reminds us of our mortality and significance.
Erik Wilberding
