Oneohtrix Point Never - Age Of (LP)

Age Of lands like a strange relic pulled from a future museum and set on a harpsichord. Daniel Lopatin’s eighth album as Oneohtrix Point Never arrived on 1 June 2018 via Warp, right after his Cannes Soundtrack Award win for Good Time, and it feels like a pivot. The synth mystic of R Plus Seven and the gnarly adolescence of Garden of Delete are still here, but they’re framed in brittle wood, plucked strings, and a voice that finally steps out from behind the sampler. It’s a record that invites you to sit uncomfortably and listen closely, then rewards you with a pile of uncanny earworms you can’t shake.

That harpsichord is the star. The opening title track sets the tone with its clipped, antique shimmer, like a court dance interrupted by corrupted files. The sound keeps returning in different guises across the album, binding these songs to a dustier lineage than you’d expect from a celebrated electronic tinkerer. There’s a deliberate sense of theatre, which makes sense if you caught news of MYRIAD, the multimedia concert series Lopatin staged at New York’s Park Avenue Armory in May 2018 to frame the record’s four fictional “ages”. You can hear that dramaturgy in the way pieces collide and shed their skins.

“Black Snow” is the anchor and also the entry point, complete with a gently cursed video that suits its smudged mood. Lopatin sings through a treated, half-human filter that renders the lyrics eerie and tender at once. The chorus lands like a nursery rhyme remembered in a blackout. “The Station” goes even further into songcraft, his voice front and centre, while “Babylon” hints at a damaged torch ballad. He’s not trying to out-sing anyone; the thrill comes from how he threads emotion through deliberately janky processing, as if the machine is tired of lying.

Then there are the gut punches. “We’ll Take It” is the panic attack, a grinding loop that chews itself raw. “Warning” erupts with Prurient’s presence, a reminder of Lopatin’s long friendship with the noise underground, all strobing alarms and scorched edges. “Toys 2” is a favourite for the lore alone. He’s said it imagines scoring a sequel to the 1992 film Toys, and you can hear that playful melancholy in the lilting melody, a carousel that keeps losing power. “Last Known Image of a Song” closes the album on a ghostly note, looping a dissolving phrase that hangs in the air long after the needle lifts.

The cast around Lopatin matters. James Blake appears in the credits with production and mixing help, and you can hear his tidy low end and sense of space softening the corners without sanding off the weirdness. Drummer and composer Eli Keszler adds jittery, nimble percussion that gives tracks like “Manifold” and “RayCats” a physical spine. Cellist Kelsey Lu’s tones slip through the pores, and Prurient’s bark, as noted, tears through the hush at crucial moments. The whole thing is curated with care, like a small ensemble in a vaulted room, each voice stepping forward, then receding.

Critics clocked it quickly. Outlets like Pitchfork and The Guardian praised its uneasy marriage of baroque texture and digital ruin, and fans have rallied around it as a gateway OPN record. You can play Age Of straight through and feel a coherent mood, yet it also works as a set of vivid scenes. That balance explains why the album has legs on turntables. The dynamics read clearly on wax, from the brittle brightness of the harpsichord to the sub rumble that creeps in under the vocals. If you’re crate-digging in a Melbourne record store, keep an eye out for the Age Of vinyl. It’s one of those modern electronic albums that repay the ritual of a full side, a cup of tea, and no interruptions.

There’s also the practical bit. For anyone hunting Oneohtrix Point Never vinyl, this is a smart place to start, and it plays well next to Garden of Delete if you want the wilder edges on tap. If you buy Oneohtrix Point Never records online, check for Warp’s pressings, which tend to be sturdy and not overly compressed. Collectors who chase Oneohtrix Point Never albums on vinyl will tell you Age Of sits in that sweet spot where concept meets replay value. And if you’re browsing vinyl records Australia wide, this one pops up often enough to grab without paying flipper prices.

Age Of doesn’t explain itself. It hints, it refracts, it lets in a bit of the outside world. You get a sense of memory, of junked media and broken instruments, and of a composer who is comfortable being a bit sentimental in public now. That shift gives the record heart. It’s still plenty strange, but the strangeness feels lived in, like a familiar room lit by a new kind of lamp.