On their third full-length, the Brooklyn quintet Ava Luna is, as always, toying with a collection of ideas that should not work together in theory. There are traces of genres they’ve already spent some time exploring: British post-punk, '70s soul and funk, late '60s krautrock. The band recorded Infinite House in wildly different environments—Benton, Mississippi and Brooklyn—which serve as central and opposing life forces for the album. One minute murmuring, echoed vocals imitate spirits in a Southern forest, and the next frontman Carlos Hernandez is texting a lover and bemoaning the cost of living. It’s a scatterbrained trip, one that invites you to nestle into its grooves and get comfy before it rudely catapults you out again.
Take, for example, opener "Company". A muted bass line thumps through the first minute, joined by some leisurely strumming and a faint hi-hat. Drummer Julian Fader abruptly cues the rest of the band in for an outburst of noise and distortion as Hernandez hollers in sheer desperation, "Do you appreciate my company?" This is a group that basks in these kinds of bipolar switches, slinking away to a new mood just as they’d gotten grips on the one preceding it.
Nonsense is intrinsic to Ava Luna, and either of its two backup singers (Felicia Douglass and Becca Kauffman) is prone to breaking out into gibberish at any given moment. But they take this tendency to a new level on "Tenderize" when Kauffman breathily scats between Hernandez’s anxious yelps like a jazz club singer. Douglass’ shadowy harmonies counteracts them both, closing in the gaps at exactly the right points. When the group builds on each other this way, the result is eerily mystical. This layering works similarly on "Coat of Shellac", blending the slickness of R&B with the harshness of post-punk and unpredictability of no wave.
The album has a loose, playful energy, and always seems to be ready to pounce on you. Skittish guitar improvisations tangle with neo-soul percussion on "Steve Polyester", while Kauffman alternates between speaking and sliding into song sporadically, as if by accident. "Black Dog" starts off with Hernandez telling a seductive, drowsy tale over a few simple guitar chords, allowing for a much-needed moment of respite. Of course, that too gives way to the dissonance, accompanied by haunting, gospel choir gang vocals. He often riffs on freewheeling blues-rock in the style of Captain Beefheart, most prominently during the serrated rhythms of "Best Hexagon".
The most bizarre track—if forced to pick one—is "Victoria". Primal utterances dance circles around distorted, intergalactic synth beats. Kauffman takes a beguiling taunt ("You’re no good, baby!"), deconstructs it, then pieces it back together repeatedly. It’s a disorienting thrill that draws out the band’s innate ingenuity. There are plenty of other high points on the album—the aching chorus of "Billz" is arguably Hernandez’s most addictive yet—but listening to Ava Luna play off of each others’ quirks here is intoxicating. Minimalism has never been their strong suit, and they wrestle with controlling their lawless tendencies, yet Infinite House doesn’t compromise the group’s hyperactive curiosity. Keeping up with it requires careful attention, though unpacking it hardly feels laborious. Just don’t expect Ava Luna to do any hand-holding for you throughout the process.
