Eluvium (aka Matthew Cooper) was copping a postshow smoke in Providence, Rhode Island, about four years ago. By chance he found himself speaking to "a strangely calm and bloody man outside of the venue," Cooper recounts. "I gave him my lighter; I wasn't about to take it back when he offered. A few minutes later, he was killed by the police, who also stormed into the club pointing guns at everyone [while] looking for this bloody man. Seems he had done some very horrible things."
If only this poor soul had been listening to Eluvium's music, perhaps his life would not have come to such a wretched, violent end. That may sound melodramatic, but the sounds this Portland-based guitarist/pianist creates do exert an undeniably peaceful effect, a most gentle sort of catharsis. Some would go so far as to call it healing music. Unless you have a perversely strong preference for hoarding tension and anxiety, you could certainly do worse than Eluvium in the stress-reduction sweepstakes.
Not unlike the ambient compositions of artists like Brian Eno, William Basinski, and Stars of the Lid, Eluvium produces serene swaths of guitar and keyboards that can serve as a means to attaining peace of mind and/or a higher state of consciousness. While by no means suitable for filing in new age bins, Eluvium full-lengths like Lambent Material, Talk Amongst the Trees, and Copia cast becalming spells through beatific waves of minimalist guitar and piano, scrupulously fashioned into pieces of understated grandeur. These records—as well as the all-piano opus An Accidental Memory in the Case of Death—instill tranquility while also moving you to misty-eyed contemplation. It's emo in a sense, but with dignity and without all that nasal whining (it comes as a relief that Cooper is also not rocking a flat-ironed, swooped haircut).
As a listener, Cooper appreciates music that can set our overworked brains at ease, and, thankfully for many, he's become a master at doing this nice thing for others, while retaining an integral grace compositionally. "The compositional part definitely has cleansing properties for me, as well, so there is a peace that comes from that," Cooper says. "It's good to hear it has a positive effect. I certainly seem to seek out sounds that will do this for me. I suppose, since Eluvium started, it was always with interest in creating sounds that I wanted to hear—and thusly, bring peace to my mind."
Born in Tennessee, Cooper grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, where he played in a band that peddled "politically charged teen angst stuff," as he told online zine Coke Machine Glow. But he gravitated away from the band dynamic into solo endeavors, and under the influence of fellow Louisville musician David Pajo's first record as Aerial M, Cooper started working on acoustic, folky instrumentals. His tinkerings then morphed into the more spacious ambient excursions that eventually led to his earning slots on globe-spanning tours with post-rock luminaries Explosions in the Sky and MONO. He has gone on to place songs in TV shows such as Skins and Queer as Folk and work with Portland director Matt McCormick on the film Some Days Are Better Than Others, which stars Carrie Brownstein and James Mercer.
But, backtracking to his musical origins, Cooper says, "I think I've always enjoyed making music since I've had the ability to play an instrument. I started piano lessons very young and then moved on to guitar. My family filled me with interest in music—whether classical from my parents or strange pop and independent music from my siblings. Music has just been a part of me for as long as I can remember, and making sound has always been the one thing in life that has made sense to me."
After moving to Portland, and then dwelling for a few years in Seattle, where he worked at the Capitol Hill record store Everyday Music (full disclosure: Cooper and I shared some shifts there in 2003 and 2004), the soft-spoken introvert embarked on his Eluvium project in earnest. He debuted auspiciously with 2003's Lambent Material on Temporary Residence Limited. Critics, including this one, flipped. Eluvium gradually accrued an overflowing file of positive reviews for his subsequent releases—including Miniatures under his own name—and garnered comparisons to heavies like Fripp & Eno, Fennesz, and Erik Satie. In my review of Lambent Material for The Stranger, I concluded, "A starsailor is born." If I may be so bold, I think those words still hold water.
Eluvium's new album, Similes, marks a slight departure: Cooper sings on it and includes subtle percussion touches. These changes won't shock Eluvium's loyal cabal of fans, as the music is still very much in the vein of past efforts. However, hearing Cooper stoically intone in a deep monotone like a combination of Ian Curtis, Stephin Merritt, and Brian Eno takes some getting used to. But Cooper had no trepidations about vocalizing after having established himself as an instrumental artist.
"I was filled with words, and I was interested in learning and growing and trying new things," he explains. "I had almost finished another record prior to writing Similes, but I threw it out and started again. It just felt uninspiring to me and easy. It's nice to learn how to do new things; it's certainly more engaging than doing the same thing over and over."
Similes is a powerfully emotional record, but in a sly manner; it hits you like a surreptitious gas. It's somewhat reminiscent of the wistful, nonambient songs on Eno's Another Green World: watercolor tones coagulating on hushed melodies with brooding undercurrents coursing through them. It almost seems like Cooper is trying to make listeners break down and cry—very softly.
"Surreptitious, perhaps, but maybe not in the way one would first think," he replies. "I don't think I want anyone crying—unless, of course, they want to be crying."
In the poignant, hymnlike "The Motion Makes Me Last," Cooper puts forth the idea of "Creation as a pathogen." Does he think that matter is inherently flawed and that we are whirling in godless space, ultimately doomed? "You don't? No, wait... can we start this over?" Moving quickly on, in the tidal 11-minute album finale "Cease to Know," it sounds as if Cooper's reaching some kind of mental threshold, trying to maintain a tenuous grasp on sanity.
"That is very much what is happening in this song," he confirms. "The album is constantly playing with themes of domesticity and robotic thought and function versus creativity, abstraction, and perhaps seeking beyond life within our societal bounds, peculiarly. The 'character' in this story gives in to the former for fear of losing control of himself."
The inner turmoil that animates much of Similes paradoxically results in songs that dissolve said unrest. With utmost stealth, Eluvium has dropped another balm. 
