Ting

After the phantasmagorical Giant Normal Dwarf, where they'd gleefully splattered the canvas with every color in the rainbow, the Nits opted for an altogether more restrained palette for this follow-up. The result was one of the most satisfying albums of their career — one, moreover, that sounds like no other in the rock canon. On paper, the idea of foregrounding the piano to the exclusion of virtually all other instruments might sound less than radical. But if that leads you to expect something in a similar orbit to artists like Ben Folds or Bruce Hornsby, forget it. Rather, the name of Philip Glass might spring to mind more readily, especially during the exquisite opening track, "Cars and Cars," where Robert Jan Stips' piano arpeggio is doubled by Dieuwke Kleijn's cello. Throughout the album, (digital) pianos are stacked and layered (there are no guitars here): they chime, cascade, and swirl, providing both melody and rhythm to magical effect. Much is made on the sleeve of the presence on Ting of a set of stones, designed by Swiss sculptor Arthur Schneiter to function as both artwork and musical instrument — "when you hit them with a mallet they say Ting." (In fact, they're just one of a battery of exotic percussion instruments deployed with great sensitivity throughout by drummer Rob Kloet.) Yet you don't need to know any of this to be seduced by the haunting title track, or cheered by the McCartney-esque "Soap Bubble Box." In fact, of the 15 tracks, only "River" fails to make much impression, not least because it's the one occasion where Henk Hofstede's Lennon-ish vocals give way to the characterless piping of Stips. Ting marked the end of a five-year period during which it seemed the Nits' creativity knew no bounds. Though there would be no precipitous decline, they would never quite scale these heights again.