To embrace ambient music—or to introduce elements of its sound within a more traditional song structure—is to parse and reshape the unknown. To recontextualize the auditory experience of daily life and render it meaningful charges our relationship to the waking world, injecting it with meaning. We talk about “the extraordinary in the ordinary,” or some such phrase when not concerned about avoiding clichés, but there is consideration and toil in that work to uproot those supposedly ordinary sounds. Though earliest versions of popular ambient music leaned tranquil, reconstructing an environment he’d passed through plenty of times, music flirting with genre often feels most memorable when using sounds that upset the space. There is viscera in the whir, the clang, a harsh release of air. These are still the sounds of our lives, but they no longer exist passively. They obstruct.
The music of Oakland-based musician Maria BC has always straddled these two worlds, but even within the most straightforward folk song they produce, close listening reveals that they dream not in traditional musical terms, but in a sound’s relationship to itself—the specificity of how vocals are layered, how gauzy guitar passages scratch against each other, how to shock the sleepiness awake when you least expect it. Their 2022 debut Hyaline mostly relied on the former two elements in order to construct the muted, hypnotic intricacy of the record, following almost directly in someone like Liz Harris’ ambient lineage to create the sound of a rolling fog that refuses to lift. Amid the looped reverb, a murky darkness stretches on, unending.
Its follow-up, 2023’s Spike Field, too, immersed itself in that same darkness, but also staked its claim as recorded proof of evolution—introducing electronic elements to part a sea of guitars, as if to snap the foggy, echo-laden dream at the base of its spine and send it limping. The record showcased not only clear growth in Maria BC’s songwriting, but a willingness to widen the aperture of what the project can hold. With a more prominent focus on keyboards, the manipulation of the voice, and the introduction of unsettling glitchiness bolted into their existing production style, suspense—a rare emotion to associate with what could arguably be called “singer-songwriter” music—emerged as a consideration. Even in the steady march of “Mercury” or the gentle thrum of “Tied,” there is a palpable sense of dread tainting the softest arrangements. The record can still slot into a passive listening experience, if needed, but contains the germ of a sound wrestling to uproot itself upon repeated listens.
And so, we arrive at an inflection point: where is the artist who has evolved their sound and approach in such a compelling way to turn when they come back to us again, bearing gifts? For Maria BC, the answer is to rewire their process and see what shifts creatively in the interim. Indeed, their latest release, Marathon, sees the artist sidestepping such intense devotion to production in favor of honing their songwriting—in search of something ”more concise,” but also “dynamic and varied,” by their own estimation.
The record’s title track, which also serves as its opener and lead single, arrives as a clear introductory statement, delivering on the now-established trend of elevated stakes with each project’s arrival. This time, the change comes in the form of a crushing drone-metal dirge inspired by a gas station signage near their childhood home, splitting the Maria BC sonic palette open with each guitar stroke acting as blunt-force attack. The track immediately stands as one of their most singular musical statements to date, razing the field for them to rewrite their sonic mission statement anew.
Yet, the rest of Marathon doesn’t quite swing for the same ecstatic heights of reinvention as that first taste. And sure, there are glimpses of something more daring scattered among the LP’s subsequent offerings—notably, on the record’s brief interlude tracks, which sputter and unnerve in their attempts to embrace a more visceral approach to the genre. But Marathon’s more substantial parts play out more so as continuations of Spike Field’s electronica-tinged psych-folk than as complete renewal, showcasing a sound further crystallized by a new creative approach. In fact, as far as singles go, “Night & Day” might serve as the most clear indication of what to expect from Marathon in full, showcasing some of Maria BC’s most poetic lyrical turns to date (“The dream gets so vivid just before it ends / I’m hanging on your voice, hanging on your words, hanging ‘round your neck”), with a vocal unobscured over a subtler acoustic track, eventually giving way to drowsy groans of saxophones that support, not disrupt, these vocal passages.
As a result, those looking for a more overt, extreme approach to the material, tapping into a more visceral ambient flavor, might be slightly let down by the less audacious shift between the sound of this release and the last. Nevertheless, Marathon emerges as a record which rewards close listening, like its predecessors, providing the opportunity for an interested listener to unearth textures and tricks not quite evident after one spin on the turntable. Where the less sonically-daring tracks shine still lies in Maria BC’s ability to manipulate and reshape sound, transforming an oblique lyrical idea into something that sounds like an atmospheric transmission from beyond, aging the sentiment into something ancient with the sheer depth of a guitar sound—as if these strange songs, built on childhood vignettes and pleas of masochistic devotion, have always existed. For every clanging rhythm igniting the fuse of a track like “The sound” or the eclectic instrumentation of “Rare,” there is the staticky, fidgeting hymn of closer “Miami,” stripped of obvious experimentation but still bearing the bones of historical songcraft. Even in its sparseness, intensity is never spared.
And maybe that’s all that we can ask of a record of this kind, which offers new details to fawn over or melodic passages sticking to skin with each successive visit. Listeners are so rarely challenged to engage patiently so that a subtler work may reveal itself over time, clawing deeper and refusing to let go once a listener can soften and familiarize themselves with the material. Above all else, the record feels like a stepping stone to a later iteration of the project which can fully embrace those extremes, if not weave into a completely different musical or thematic approach altogether.
Maria BC has referred to Marathon as a document of endurance—“of pushing forward, resisting, observing and surviving,” according to the accompanying press materials. The record stands as a worthy addition to an already staggeringly accomplished discography, but the fruit it bears depends on how swiftly you’re willing to meet its demands. In its slow unraveling, there is a request for time: to give your attention over wholeheartedly as you wait to see how the envelope can be pushed further the next time around—to allow yourself to become and unbecome, acknowledging the consideration in the artist’s toil, standing as the sound’s active witness. There are worse things to be in this life than being patient, after all. [Sacred Bones]
Elise Soutar is a New York-born-and-based music and culture writer.
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