Listening to Bloomfield Machine’s new seventeen-track instrumental album, “Copium,” feels a bit like stepping into a terrarium during a quiet downpour. The title itself suggests a kind of modern, knowing self-delusion, the balm we apply just to get by. Yet, the music crafted by Huntington Beach’s Brian Kassan is far too sincere for pure cynicism. This isn’t the sound of giving up; it’s the sound of accepting the strange stillness that follows a difficult decision.
A departure from Kassan’s darker work, this collection is built from minimalist electronic arrangements and ambient textures that leave plenty of room to breathe. As a solo project where one person handles every single element, from composition to mastering, there’s a startling cohesion. Nothing feels forced. The tracks unfold with a sort of patient logic, like watching patterns form in the condensation on a windowpane. Beneath the dreamy surface, however, are melodic hooks that latch onto your subconscious, holding the ambient washes together with surprising strength.
The album claims to express feelings that can’t be verbalized, and it succeeds in that strange mission. It occupies the emotional space of a train stopped between stations for no apparent reason—a moment of suspended animation that is both unsettling and deeply peaceful. These are not songs for the club or the commute. They are for the quiet, in-between moments when you’re simply existing, caught between a melancholy for what was and a fragile optimism for what might be.
You can find the whole strange, comforting apparatus over on Bandcamp. After letting it loop for a day, the experience lingers. Is this music a medicine for the modern condition, or is it just a beautifully scored symptom?
