One of the more enduring legacies of the World War II partisan movement can be found in its anthems of resistance and uprising. Unlike the brutal force of usual calls to arms, the Soviet war song ‘Katyusha’, its Italian version ‘Fischia il vento’, the French ‘Le chant des partisans’, and the memefied/commodified to death yet eternally poignant ‘Bella ciao’ occupy a softer emotional space, trading outward aggression for profound melancholy. Their melodies draw strength from a morose, minor-key yearning and shared pain, transforming struggle, grief, and loss into collective resolve rather than shouting through brass and percussion. And Bhutan-born, North Carolina-based guitarist Tashi Dorji’s latest works follow in the same footsteps.
In a 2014 interview for The Wire, Dorji reveals how his approach is an “intuitive response to sound, ideas, space and emotions, which are sometimes specific and sometimes very abstract”. Considering the current state of the US and the world at large, it’s unsurprising to see his music in 2026 reflecting the turmoil and threats that we’re all faced with. While Dorji’s previous record, 2024’s We Will Be Wherever the Fires are Lit, channeled resolve and fury through frenetically strummed, explosive acoustic guitar recorded in a garden shed; Low Clouds Hang, This Land is on Fire finds him with an electric instrument in hand and a quieter mood in mind.
Here, Dorji unfolds a scintillating soundscape of amplified riffs and phrases, loosely following the slow, unmetered flow of the raga alap form, letting sustained tones reverberate in the ample space of a high-ceilinged room in his family home. On opener ‘Low Clouds Hang, This Land is on Fire’, a light and plaintive, almost spectral guitar sound shines through amplifier hum and faint feedback like a guiding light through mist. Dorji articulates riffs with patience and purpose, each repetition introducing subtle rhythmic shifts and textural reconfigurations, pushing chords along until they are rolling down a voluminous low-frequency path, twinkling gently yet decisively.
On the surface, the album fits neatly with a recent crop of exciting avant-rock guitar experiments. In its moodier moments, the music can be as gorgeous and inherently moving as Rafael Toral’s explorations of sustained harmony on Traveling Light. Yet, a sense of disquiet follows like a shadow, haunting the melodies, ready to break the enchantment. Elsewhere, Dorji plays with feedback, exploring the sculptural qualities of the electric guitar, bringing Nina Garcia’s Bye Bye Bird to mind. Yet, he does so with a pared-down setup, embracing the hiss and mains hum of equipment as a central part of the album’s aesthetic.
Such serendipitous crackles disrupt the flow of ‘Murmur’, as phrases break up and fluctuate in intensity, but still struggle forward, unfolding into uncomplicated, stirring melodies. Meanwhile, ‘Black Flag Anthems’ and ‘They Fall Because They Must Fall’ see riffs grow bigger and angrier, to the point where their urgency makes them stumble over each other. Dorji accelerates, bunches notes together in tight lines, then releases them in forceful streams, evoking imagery of a mass of people charging at a police cordon.
If the first half of the album encapsulates what Antonio Gramsci would qualify as “the pessimism of the intellect”, the last three cuts unleash pure “optimism of the will”. ‘But Go Not “Back to the Sediment” in the Slime of the Moaning Sea…’, which borrows its title from a poem by 19th-century US anarchist feminist Voltairine de Cleyre, and ‘Storm the Heavens’ grind increasingly sharper and pointed tones as they progress. When they finally culminate in the overpowering, elatedly bright ‘A New Morning Breaks’, Dorji’s music begins to feel truly necessary, a transmutation of current anxieties into a determination to move forward.
