Avalanche City, the culmination of a year’s worth of isolation and musical study by Dave Baxter of New Zealand, is unstoppably infectious and beautiful. His debut album, Our New Life Above the Ground has everything from deep, dark piano chords to upbeat acoustic riffs and some of the most sincere vocals that I’ve come across in quite some time. With his first effort, Baxter has managed to capture the soul of folk music while incorporating the memorable melodies and drive of something found in a more mainstream pop genre.
His most recent release, Snow, opens with a whimsical, delicate intro that captures the magic of, well, snow. The EP quickly launches forward, though, with beating drums and cascading vocals that provide an elegant but aggressive opening to another series of excellent songs. The second track, “Beautiful”, provides a better representation of the simple, acoustic-driven tunes that dominate the rest of the EP. Though they all have bare, rustic qualities, the honesty of the recordings gives them a luster and prevents them from becoming monotonous or trite.
“How Long”, my favorite song on both the album and EP, earns its position easily with earnest lyrics, whispering electronic embellishments, and a simple layer of guitar that immediately forced me to pause, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. What strikes me most about this song and, for that matter, the rest of Avalanche City’s music is the sense of personal connection. Listening to his music in the subway, at work, or in my room generates the sensation that Baxter is actually performing right in front of me, clapping, picking, and brooding for my private session.
While the pure, acoustic tracks grab my attention more so than their upbeat cousins, I still find myself reacting to and really enjoying the vigorous clapping and richer instrumentation found on the full album. I suppose the reaction is more a function of mood than of one track actually triumphing over the other. Simply put, each song has the potential to reach out and take hold of you.
