In real life, I can be impatient—once an East Coaster, always an East Coaster—but when it comes to music, I welcome songs like "Sigill," the opening track from Toronto musician and graphic artist Colin Bergh's sole album as Wyrd Visions, 2006's Half-Eaten Guitar. It's long, purposefully repetitive, and thoroughly hypnotic.

That's my take on it, at any rate; your mileage may vary. I worked in a record store for a few years—Cellophane Square on the Ave.—so I've seen how quickly songs of this nature can drive some listeners around the bend. What I find relaxing rankles their every nerve.

I'm unable to decipher the words Bergh is chanting over the closely-mic'ed strumming, but I could listen to his mantra for hours (I think it's in Swedish). If anything, I need hymns like this in my life to help me slow down; to move with more care, to breathe more deeply, to pay more attention to my surroundings.

What also works: Opal, Brightblack Morning Light, Herbcraft, and anything with a Rhodes. As with those acts, a silken thread of folk weaves its way through Bergh's drone-based rock. It's spacey, yet earthbound at the same time—like Solaris or Silent Running (assuming you prefer a touch of greenery to your sci-fi).

Warning: the Soundcloud edition of the song ends abruptly; it's a little unsettling.

P.W. Elverum & Sun (the label imprint from Mount Eerie's Phil Elverum) releases Half-Eaten Guitar on April 15, so that's one good thing about that fateful day.