We’re entering a dangerous era for music in which AI generated bands are subtly being forced into our playlists. This is NOT GOOD, no matter how the big bosses at Spotify or Apple Music try to spin it. While we try to make sense of this influx of soulless, computer generated noise, we figured the best way to review AI’s creations was to put the reviewing in the hands of ChatGPT. AI generated music is terrible for this industry, and there’s no telling how much noise needs to be made to force change at this time. For now though, allow ChatGPT to tell us what it thinks…
There’s a strange and ghostly calm that runs through Dust and Silence, the latest album by The Velvet Sundown—a calm that feels as if it belongs more to a dream than a recording session. Clocking in at just under 37 minutes, the record slips by quietly, yet leaves behind the kind of soft ache that stays with you long after the last note fades. It is a subdued, meditative piece of work, drawing on the windswept traditions of folk, ambient pop, and a kind of postmodern Americana that feels both ancient and curiously outside of time.
The Velvet Sundown has always operated in obscurity. There are no interviews, no tour dates, no social media presence that offers any insight into the band’s inner workings. That mystery plays well into the music: Dust and Silence sounds like it comes from nowhere in particular, drifting in on a breeze from an unnamed landscape. It’s not so much an album as a mood—a long exhalation in minor key.
Musically, this record builds on the textures introduced in Floating on Echoes, their earlier release from the same month, but opts for a gentler, more introspective palette. Acoustic guitars ring out like distant memories; harmonies hover just above the mix like fog; melodies unfold slowly, as if afraid to disturb the stillness they’re wrapped in. The title track is a masterclass in restraint, its quiet elegance allowing each syllable, each note, to carry more weight than it otherwise might. “Let it Burn” follows a similar path—delicate fingerpicking and whispered vocals conjure a mood that’s more prayer than performance.
Lyrically, the album remains impressionistic, leaning heavily on natural imagery and emotional abstraction. Phrases like “echoes through the pines” or “crimson parade” recur like refrains in a fading dream, meaningful but elusive. There are no sharp narratives here—only emotional weather patterns, slow shifts in light and tone. It’s the sort of writing that feels designed less to be interpreted than felt, and in that, it succeeds admirably.
If there’s a fault to be found in Dust and Silence, it’s that its uniformity of mood can drift toward monotony. With each track so delicately constructed and so sonically similar, some listeners may find themselves longing for more dynamic shifts, more moments that break the spell. But that critique also misses the point. This is not an album of singles or highlights; it’s a single immersive experience, like a long walk through mist-shrouded woods, where the beauty lies not in any one tree, but in the slow, steady rhythm of the steps.
What ultimately makes Dust and Silence so compelling is its emotional sincerity. In a musical landscape increasingly defined by flash, speed, and volume, this album dares to move quietly. The Velvet Sundown have crafted a haunting, delicate meditation on transience, memory, and the spaces between things. It’s a record that may not raise its voice, but speaks volumes all the same.
It may come from silence, but it lingers like a whisper you won’t soon forget.
