Ben Frost's Aurora has inherited a rare and fortunate distinction: it is one of those "introductory" albums—championed online by ambient music neophytes—used to initiate newcomers into the so-called true rules of good taste. Setting that perspective aside for a moment, we prefer to draw attention to another notable fact: Aurora celebrates its tenth anniversary. In 2014, Frost, the celebrated Icelandic-based Australian composer, crafted an album that was tense yet glacial: Aurora's implicit message seems to be that exploring a polar land is not so different from exploring another planet. Little context is grafted onto the raw, real coldness of the album's sound, although the references are subtle but obvious: "Nolan" and "No Sorrowing" allude to "epic" cinematic imagery—the lost causes and "no, go on without me" moments peculiar to tense survival film soundtracks—while the total dystonia of "Diphenyl oxalate" evokes a chemical influence, recalling a cliffside emergency scenario, with the only help being the faint glow of glow sticks and distress flares, wielded by heroes in hazmat suits, lost, stranded far from the research station. Frost is now sharing a limited edition red vinyl for the album's 10th anniversary.
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