Inland See by Bitchin Bajas - Review

There is a moment, about two minutes into Inland See, when the sound stops feeling like music and starts to feel like weather. It is not a sudden realization. It arrives gradually, like the quiet shift between morning and afternoon that you only notice when the light changes. The record does not demand anything from you. It unfolds.

Bitchin Bajas are a trio of Chicago musicians who have been making this kind of sound for years. Cooper Crain, Rob Frye, and Dan Quinlivan approach music as a kind of environmental architecture. They are not trying to tell stories. They are trying to create conditions. Their work often feels less performed than maintained, like a machine that hums in tune with its surroundings.

Their tools are mostly analog: synthesizers, flutes, organs, tapes, and an assortment of percussion instruments that sound handmade or recovered from an attic. What defines them is their relationship with time. They refuse to rush. Every chord is allowed to stretch. Every loop is permitted to breathe until it becomes part of the air.

Inland See is one of their most open and intentional works. Compared to earlier releases like Bajas Fresh or Bitchitronics, it feels lighter, less dense, and more transparent. You can hear the hiss of the recording space and the imperfections of the equipment. The album was recorded at Electrical Audio in Chicago, and you can almost sense the physicality of that room in the mix. There is warmth and presence, a kind of analog gravity that pulls everything together.

The opening track, “Skylarking,” sets the tone. It begins with a simple drone that pulses like a heartbeat. A flute enters, repeating a short phrase that feels ancient and modern at once. Over time, the layers shift slightly, like ripples in still water. There are no sudden changes, no breaks, only accumulation. By the six-minute mark, it becomes clear that the piece has been building toward a kind of stillness rather than release. It feels like meditation recorded to tape.

“Reno” arrives with more rhythm, though rhythm here means something subtle. Synth patterns move in circular motion. You begin to sense the push and pull of tempo, but it never fully locks in. The track gives the impression of walking at night through an empty downtown street. Every sound reflects off something unseen.

Midway through the record, the trio allows melody to emerge with more confidence. The production becomes almost pastoral, a sound reminiscent of early New Age records or late Krautrock, but stripped of nostalgia. Bitchin Bajas do not imitate history. They recycle its machinery. Each tone feels both mechanical and human.

The closing piece, “Graut,” is the center of gravity for the whole album. It runs close to eighteen minutes and feels like three movements disguised as one. The first half is pure drone: long organ tones that expand and contract with patience. Around the midpoint, the track acquires motion. A faint rhythm builds underneath the haze, something closer to breath than percussion. By the final stretch, the elements coalesce into a strange groove that threatens to become danceable but never crosses the line. It stays just out of reach, hovering in that space between anticipation and surrender.

The record’s greatest strength is its restraint. The trio knows exactly how long to linger in a motif before letting it evolve. They understand that repetition can create intimacy. In Inland See, change is not announced. It happens in increments, so small you only realize it once it has already occurred. The listening experience becomes an act of attention.

Sitting in a living room, this album alters the space. The sound is physical but never intrusive. It fills the air like warm air from a vent. You start to notice your breathing slowing down. The mind begins to track the tiny shifts in tone and texture. It becomes easy to forget the passing of time.

What makes Bitchin Bajas remarkable is their ability to make electronic music feel organic. They achieve this without sentimentality. Nothing about Inland See feels like an escape from technology. It feels like technology learning to coexist with stillness. The analog tones wobble slightly. The tape feels alive. The imperfection becomes part of the experience.

There are no traditional climaxes, but there are plenty of moments that feel like revelation. The subtle entrance of a saxophone, the flutter of a flute, the low hum of a bass frequency creeping in under everything. These moments are small but deeply satisfying because they feel earned.

Inland See is not background music, though it will work as such if you let it. It rewards focus but never punishes distraction. It is a record made for rooms rather than headphones, for spaces rather than moods. The longer it plays, the more it feels like part of the environment.

Bitchin Bajas have always existed on the margins of genre. They are too patient for traditional electronic audiences, too synthetic for jazz, too structured for ambient purists. Yet that in-between quality is what makes them special. They make music that refuses to behave.

Inland See is not trying to be beautiful. It just is. It feels like the result of people who understand their instruments as extensions of their bodies. It is the sound of craft without ego. It is calm without complacency. It is music that trusts the listener to sit still and listen longer than usual.

By the time the record ends, the room feels quieter. The silence afterward is different, like the space itself has shifted slightly. That is the effect of Bitchin Bajas. They do not command attention. They rewire it.