A Closer Listen
Night of Return is a departure of sorts for Ceremony of Seasons and their solstice-themed roster. First, the cassette is scary, less like gently falling snow than the feeling of being snowboard and stir-crazy, wondering if one is hallucinating while branches scrape against windows and cupboards rattle in their grooves. This is the dark side of winter, the winter of eerie folklore, of ghosts and sprites and other malevolent creatures. The crow on the cover is a portent of something dark and dangerous and terribly near.
And yet, as if winking, with a twinkle in the open eye, the release is paired not with an alcoholic beverage but with a winter spiced grape seltzer, available in 4-packs, bearing the same apprehensive photograph but an entirely different tone. One need not be afraid to drink this seltzer; it’s effervescent and refreshing, and we need not search for undertones, except for cardamon and cinnamon, allspice and anise, perhaps a sprinkle of ginger, a pinch of clove. For the first time, we are not reviewing while imbibing an alcoholic beverage and enjoyng its warm permeation; instead, we are listening to dark music, undercut by a brighter sweetness. This delicious tension is unfamiliar, yet welcome: the two sides of the season intertwined.
If there is any doubt about this dual nature, we present as evidence the album’s alliterative advertisement: “Waves of witchcraft for wallowing through wide winter nights.” The phrase conjures memories of Fox in Socks, the famous Dr. Seuss tongue twister. Proceed a bit further, to the phrase “time is transformation,” and one grows closer to the heart of the release. The solstice, and by extension winter, is all about transformation: from holiday to hibernation, from reflection to resolve, and the incremental increase from darkness to light. This is certainly a night album, touching on themes of sleep and dreams, the unconscious and the underworld, but it also lays a very thin path of bread crumbs for the listener to follow … if the crow doesn’t get to them first.
Modular synthesist Rodent is the guide to this journey, which unfurls in two side-long pieces. “Covens spellcasting to transfigure before dawn” begins quietly and unobtrusively, with gentle, filtered voices: an invitation to the gingerbread house. Wet synth drips like the warnings in an 80s horror film; then a forlorn, distant howl. Soon the entire forest is filled with choral ghosts. Over time, many of these elements dissipate in a cauldron of drone, but some survive like haunts. The chords seem backward-masked, another manipulation of time. Not until the tenth minute do the drums emerge, establishing a lurching tempo before slowing as if snatched by quicksand. But as the track winds down, a friendlier electronic pattern emerges, sparkling like that unfermented Zinfandel, signifying a tonal shift.
On Side B, Rodent asks, “What light marks time despite being reduced into the night?” Our guess would be the moon, which tracks with the artwork and theme. The beginning of the piece is raw, a scurrying creature looking for a hole. The sonic field grows three-dimensional, as the stereo effects come into play. But then the drones, like the long breath of winter, reenter. One can sense the wind as it begins to beckon. Yet what sounds like stasis is actually movement, as evidenced by the pulse that develops in the eighth minute and the shoegaze voices that follow in its wake. There’s a song here, albeit disjointed: either the fractured tune of winter or the far-off strains of spring. Whether this is the new dawn or the projection of a fevered mind is left to the listener; our interpretation lands on sweetness and light, but that could just be the grape seltzer talking. (Richard Allen)
Tue Feb 03 00:01:15 GMT 2026