Practically since his first solo release -- 1989's marvelous Acadie -- Daniel Lanois has had the freedom to pursue whatever muse stirs his imagination. His status as an iconic producer remains unrivaled, though it often overshadows a rich personal discography that has been reliably eclectic and occasionally quite moving. After revisiting the singer/songwriter format on 2021's Heavy Sun, Lanois heads back into more ambient territory with Player, Piano, an experimental yet surprisingly poignant collection of piano instrumentals. Better known for his atmospheric guitar work, Lanois takes similar care in his approach to the piano, manipulating and shaping the instrument's natural characteristics in subtle but effective ways. However, rather than building it into something futuristic and nearly unrecognizable like he did on 2016's spectral pedal steel opus Goodbye to Language, he turns back the clock with a deliberately vintage tone that harks back to the 1940s and '50s. Utilizing ribbon mics, dampened strings, and felt-muted hammers, Lanois creates a nostalgic sound to compliment his sparse, ethereal compositions. The stately "My All," an elegy written for his younger brother, opens the album, establishing a sentimental mood that remains throughout the set. Songs like the winsome "Inverness" and "Zsa Zsa" breathe out into the room, as gentle piano voicings interact with understated effects to create something timeless and inviting. When the occasional percussion or synth part does enter the picture, it is generally complimentary or at least unobtrusive, letting the piano fill the most space. Musically, this is one of the most vulnerable collections Lanois has ever made and quite endearing in its sweetness.© Timothy Monger /TiVo

On 2016's Goodbye to Language, veteran producer Daniel Lanois and frequent collaborator Rocco DeLuca team up for an album of shifting experimental soundscapes created with lapsteel guitars. The album is far closer to Lanois' pioneering ambient works with Brian Eno, Harold Budd, and Michael Brook from the 1980s than his subsequent, more rootsy singer/songwriter albums. As the album's title suggests, there are no lyrics here, and the feelings evoked by this music can't accurately be expressed by words anyway. As simple as the idea of an ambient steel guitar album sounds, there's a lot going on here, and it never feels like mere background music. The guitar playing itself tends to be gentle, but it's filtered through a wide array of effects and subtle manipulations, resulting in a surreal hallucination of Americana. The album brings to mind any number of recordings featuring B.J. Cole, as well as Evil Graham Lee's steel guitar playing on the KLF's Chill Out, and while it evokes a spiritual journey similar to that iconic album, it feels far more fragmented and abstract. There are numerous moments where the guitars rapidly cut out, cluster, or change timbre as if they've been edited musique concrète-style. It's very disjointed, and there's no way to mistake the sudden, jarring shifts, but somehow it still manages to flow smoothly, even (for the most part) peacefully. Only one piece on this album ("Deconstruction") was recorded by Lanois solo, and it's easily the darkest, eeriest cut, with strange rifts bubbling under the desolate melodies and waves of abrasive distortion rivaling Fennesz or Tim Hecker. Goodbye to Language is a powerful, intoxicating album and one of Lanois' best works in at least a decade.© Paul Simpson /TiVo

Right from the onset of "Two Worlds" it's a refreshing splash in the face to hear Daniel Lanois' pedal steel playing dance around a bed of guitar feedback; it serves as a reference point to some of his work on U2's The Joshua Tree. Like 2003's Shine, Belladonna reveals a side of Lanois that is a treat to see. The vulnerable, contemplative side that was such a critical element to his work with Brian Eno is more than evident, and his slide guitar playing also highlights just how important his contributions were to the notable releases of Eno's solo catalog. The interplay between musicians on the full ensemble tracks is focused and meticulous, with each member knowing exactly when to play and more importantly, when not to. But above all this, it's Lanois' guitar that tells the story and is the anchor of the 13-song cycle; a homage to a lost love with Latin and desert country influences embedded within the center of the record. It's every bit as focused and accomplished as anything in Lanois' catalog, and die-hard fans will be wanting more long after the disc winds down.© Rob Theakston /TiVo

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Flesh & Machine is Daniel Lanois' seventh or eighth album depending on how one counts them. It contains no "songs," but rather 11 sonic compositions that have been painstakingly structured from sketch instrumentation (guitars, pedal steel, drums, basses, organs, pianos, an omnichord) and voices (human and otherwise), put through intricate webs of digital processing, editing, and sampling. What started as an ambient album -- the tracks "Space Love" and closer "Forest City" are testaments to that -- spiraled into something else, a record where the recording studio becomes the instrument of choice. There are precedents in his earlier catalog for almost everything here: the aforementioned cuts recall work he did with Brian Eno on 1982's Ambient 4: On Land and 1983's Apollo: Atmospheres & Soundtracks), yet the end result is more scattershot and fragmented. Opener "Rocco" features harmonically layered falsetto voices accompanied by a piano. It's lovely and lilting but all too brief. "Aquatic" commences as an ambient piece, but its fuzzy pedal steel and wordless vocals drift languidly to explore various tones and harmonics. Though it possesses no real center, it does extend ideas Lanois showcased on Steel, the first album in his Omni Series box. The frenetic "Opera" showcases live drums accompanying a sped-up, distorted, junglist loop (itself created from live drums) stacked alto voices, a whompy Jim Wilson bassline, and what sounds like variously stretched, striated organ chords. The drumming on "Sioux Lookout" is in the punchy New Orleans funk style with massive tom-tom and snare breaks -- one can hear its origins in various songs on For the Beauty of Wynona -- while the guitars are silvery and dreamy. "The End" is a tense, squalling, electric guitar and drum jam with Brian Blade playing without restraint. Lanois employs staggering tsunamis of distortion and feedback in his soloing. The romantic waltz "My First Love" uses the same omnichord synth Lanois employed on Apollo. It's tender and perverse with a deliberate application of schmaltz; it would not be out of place in a David Lynch film. "Two Bushas," while pretty in its shimmering way, sounds more like an afterthought than an actual idea. And that's the problem with Flesh & Machine. This rainbow of sonic treatments sound great in a pair of headphones but, though most of the individual pieces are interesting, they fail to gel as an album. Over most of the 2000s, Lanois has proven he's more interested in experimenting in his laboratory than in songwriting. That's fine as far as it goes but it doesn't make for an album which one is inclined to return to repeatedly.© Thom Jurek /TiVo