Engendering certain minimalist truths, Bexar Bexar’s influences aren’t as transparent as they would first appear - ascertaining the contemporaries from which Tropism is drawn is truly daunting. Obvious answers form in the shape of instrumental czars such as Do Make Say Think and Esmerine (both in terms of mood and organic structure), but as is the case with the majority of sparse, experimental artists, it’s the sounds which are almost inaudible that are the most significant. It could, to a certain extent, be argued that the influential tendencies of doom-country heroes such as Songs Ohia or Amandine offer the most pertinent comparisons; minus the (whisper it: Americana vocals) the emotional clout is intrinsically mirrored. Tropism flows with the same exuberant sorrow that permeates anything that Jason Molina, et al has sung about - it’s just delivered in entirely different package; one that needs inexorably more patience for its narrative to sink in…

Comprised primarily of acoustic arrangements and found sound samples, the Texas band’s sophomore record is certainly more complex than its debut counterpart - the loop heavy Haralambos. Where Tropism sets particularly noteworthy new ground, indeed, is in its aching and compelling simplicity. The fingerpicked-reverb-laden guitars are accompanied in sparing detail; only the occasional glitch and aforementioned field samples add to the coherence of the delicate whole. Melodies are both vibrant and rich and yet, conversely, so bewitchingly buried in each track that first impressions are left only with the candelabra and the record’s captivating aura. With this in mind it would, perhaps, be a rather insincere critique to speculate over the literal inspirations behind each track, such is the heady density that each one occupies. Rather, it would do an injustice to the emotional heart that beats life into these songs of …of whatever they are - to our defective senses, it would appear that Bexar Bexar have merely drawn out a route in aural signposts, suggesting a pilgrimage of some sort, a rite of passage of some description - an ambiguity, either way, fittingly in keeping with Tropism’s implied kismet; how we interpret this journey, necessity decrees, is a conclusion that we each must come to…

These ten songs are acoustic palms; prayers, unbelievable and quaint, that haunt the conscious; unreal and empty. Yet each one, every last enduring moment of each note, hope and reverie, simply has to be…

Such frailty is indescribable. Listen. Just…listen.

 - Alex Bradshaw