The moments between what is, what was, and what could be offer an invitation to succumb to the rhythm of being. On Meridians, Fuubutsushi, aka Chris Jusell, Chaz Prymek, Matthew Sage, and Patrick Shiroishi, find the spark of life that comes from contemplating the in-between. Their music quietly celebrates distance—between people, between moments, between musical ideas. Their winding songs become a rose-lined path into the unknown, one that suggests perhaps time is nothing to fear, only something to love enough to let go.
Distance has been fodder for the ensemble since their debut set, Shiki, a collection of four albums that explored the changing seasons created during COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns. Naturally, those records were sculpted across borders, brought together from different corners of the world while it was necessarily shut down. Meridians similarly traverses distance, taking the four time zones of the United States as inspiration. But more than in its background, the group animates space in their sonic palettes. Their music is patient, floating through its waterfall rhythms with an ease unbounded by the confines of time; they take it slow, pacing through each bubbling melody with a careful ear.
The group’s greatest strength is their ability to maintain simplicity while weaving together a web of different timbres and textures. They often ricochet between genres and forms, blending short, romantic songs with pensive odes that sprawl out, all born from the tenets of ambient and jazz. They craft delicate phrases that glow hazy pink as violin and guitar strums, twinkling percussion, and fervent saxophone ascend into the sunrise mist. Fuzzy ambiance holds like a pillow beneath each solo that emerges from the fog, giving every track its glistening sheen. In quieter moments, they fully lean into the tenderness of their textures, filling up space with soft hums and barely present scratches. Every track unfolds with grace, slow enough to soak in the twists and turns of the road they travel.
The best tracks on Meridians tap into the meditative and poignant nature of their music, stretching out with fortitude. “Nora Nora” ruminates on tranquil piano and cymbal rushes, giving way to a whimsical guitar melody. There are moments of pause; nothing feels like it moves too fast, in fact, the silence feels just as much a part of the music as the sound, a way of processing the steps that lead to whatever comes next. “New Flora” similarly unfurls, but takes a more rhythmic approach to the ensemble’s gentleness; drums beat a steady pulse in conversation with violin tremolos and soaring saxophone, growing not into serenity but a muted celebration.
And while, yes, Fuubutsushi’s music is heavy on the sort of melodrama meant to tug at the heartstrings (or pull them right out), the group finds its balance, leaning away from the saccharine and into something a little more mysterious and magical. There’s openness in every track—space to think, space to be, space to wonder. In nostalgia, there’s rarely that space; it pulls us from the present back into some imagined past. Fuubutsushi instead embraces the uncertainty of the moment, how it can be stretched taut or let loose, held tight or forgotten. After all, there’s nowhere to go, just the journey to be had.