" data-original-title="" title="">Ben Monder is completely dedicated to mood and emotional expression, developing at an exceedingly unhurried pace. Not so much a solid step as a bodiless spirit-float. Monder is a core member of McHenry's quartet, but now the pair find themselves cast adrift from a rhythm section.

The title cut immediately establishes a sense of foreboding, the somber uncurling of a deathly petal. Monder can't escape the reverberational legacy of Bill Frisell, his preferred act being to emit suspended tones while McHenry grows bittersweet, savoring his own rich tone. They bleed together into "Ice Fields," McHenry thistly, the pair agreeing on a key climactic point where they connect with a mournful wailing.

The album has an authentic live-in-the-room acoustic, moving into a central cluster of pieces that swim towards becalmed waters, reducing to minimal gestures as a pregnant aura is gently formed. "Food Chain" has a cyclic pileup that recalls Pat Metheny playing Steve Reich (on "Electric Counterpoint"), as McHenry ebbs and flows in sympathy with Monder's patterns.

How's this for a title? "The Shimmering Now That Breathes You." It's perfectly appropriate for the music's eternal glissando nature, until McHenry makes a shocking entry to close, sounding just like a motherless seal pup.

Guitarist