There is a strange reassurance in the way To Baby Bones unfolds. Each track is carried by a seiche of orbiting rhythm that circles endlessly, steady enough to trust, flexible enough to bend without breaking. It is music that teaches by repetition, asking you to lean into discomfort until it softens, to notice the spaces between the beats, to discover that even unease can be a form of belonging.

I keep coming back to the pulse of this album. It never abandons you, but it never lets you rest entirely either. Around it, Kaczor places textures that haunt the negative spaces, the air between kicks, the shimmer in the background. These aren’t decorations. They’re the emotional language of the record. They are what transform the repetition from mechanical insistence into something strangely reassuring.

The title track, “To Baby Bones” opens with restraint, almost hesitant, until angelic fragments slip in and tilt the mood. The rhythm keeps you moored, even as the soundscape swells into something uncanny. There’s discomfort here, but it teaches if you’re willing to listen. The atmosphere edges toward unease, then folds it back into warmth, as if to remind you that endurance itself is a form of beauty.

“Bridge” is exactly that: a connective technical crossing of woven pieces. The rhythm skitters and rebounds like a stone skipping across water, each impact creating ripples that merge into a wider field of resonance. What you hear depends on where you focus: the pulse, the scatter, the halo behind it all.

“This Blue Light” expands into space. A haze, a bassline, hi-hats threading like nervous systems. Halfway through, silence opens a doorway, and when the rhythm returns it feels earned, as though the track has been waiting with you in that pause. The title makes sense here: it feels like staring at the sky and realizing the color has nothing to do with pigment, only a scattering of photons and the hardware we choose to perceive them with.

“Punch Bag” is the outlier here… it grates, interrupts, unsettles. A drunken warble moves across the mix, demanding attention in ways that feel almost antagonistic. But going in and through is the only way, as this track functions as contrast. Like sampling a putrid, rotting corpse into the bouquet of a fine perfume, it sharpens your awareness of everything around it. Discomfort has its place.

The closer, “Home Away From Home” returns us to the pulse, but larger, older, heavier. It carries the patience of seasons, the weight of time beyond measurement. The track feels like a cycle collapsing and renewing at once. What begins as alarm softens into reflection, as if the thing you feared reveals itself to be your own shadow. The angelic textures weave back in, and you realize they’ve been there all along.

Listening to To Baby Bones feels like being told a secret about endurance. That repetition isn’t stagnation, that noise can be reassurance, that the body’s rhythm is as much a teacher as the mind’s doubt. It’s a record that gives space to think but also insists that thought be tethered to feeling, place, and time.