Musk Ox asks for a contemplative listener. The pace is mostly slow, or rather, gradual — the sound is low-slung and accommodating, focused but unrushed, and the instruments are understated: a piano, an acoustic guitar, a voice saying “Ah” with a kind of extended, rising groan, as if the sound is trying to detach itself from the earth at a shallow diagonal angle. Sometimes we hear the wind sweeping across a landscape that, from the sound of the size of it, is probably similar to the one on the cover. Nature is evoked. There is a slightly formal, medieval feel. A note is struck and allowed to decay as it likes: this seems to sum up the album. Those who enjoy Musk Ox will probably find themselves wanting to return to it. “Beautiful — thoughtful — an album like a piece of land art sculpture. I hear new things in it every time I put it on.” Those who hate it will find themselves with plenty of ammunition. “Can’t he play more than one note? Can’t he sing any other syllables?”