MOON MULLINS PLAYS HOTEL PARADISO

A compact luxury convertible pulls into the roundabout in front of the Hotel Paradiso. A dapper gentleman kills the engine and pulls himself up onto the curb, cracking a thin but affable smile. He hands his keys to the valet, removing and dusting off his woven, off-white hat and closing his eyes for a moment in satisfaction. He stops to marvel briefly at the Art Deco lobby, as luxurious and finely detailed as he remembers from his last stay. The architecture is minimalist and Baroque in all the right places; everything feels in balance at this palatial estate at the edge of the world. Guests come from their own respective Nowheres to enjoy a weekend or month away from their troubles and, perhaps, the vain trappings of their identity. After rubbing the edges of his mustache for a moment in contemplation, the unknown gentleman decides that his best course of action is to change his suit, make a reservation for a fine seafood dinner in town, and mix his first martini of the afternoon. He takes in a bird’s eye view of the marina and the citrus trees from his room’s stucco balcony; eventually, he will no doubt make his way down to the pool, and from there, to the lounge.

It may not be this particular man, but composer and vintage keyboard maestro Moon Mullins wrote Hotel Paradiso—his newest work of programmatic exotica for Ruination Records—from the perspective of some lone, context-free traveler. They are at loose ends, eager for a few days in another open-ended, simpler life; from their vantage,we see, hear, and feel Paradiso. Mullins creates his imagery through a singular, meticulously blended combination of synthetic and acoustic sounds, played largely by him with help from friends. The scenario inspires the most ambitious and orchestrally-minded set of compositions the Brooklyn-based musician has yet released. Its predecessor, Water Your Flowers, felt more pointillistic and comprehensively electronic, conjuring images of utopian tiki bars, bonsai gardens, beaches on distant planets, and more. The palette of Hotel Paradiso is even more kaleidoscopic, creating moments of transcendent atmosphere that recall, at turns, Japanese ambient music, the early mood LPs of Henry Mancini, and the ethereal harmonies of Maurice Ravel.

Hotel Paradiso takes place in less than 24 hours, and ends with the onset of blissful slumber. We aren’t forced to imagine the Traveler in any discomfort, suffering the after-effects of their nighttime jaunt or having to leave their weekend oasis at checkout time. The wider world is left outside of the picture, as if it could disappear entirely if we kept listening. In this unabashedly idyllic music, Mullins demonstrates his acute command of how to create a prolonged scene in sound, and his ever-expanding gifts as an arranger. But at no point does the cleverness and sophistication of Mullins’s writing on Hotel Paradiso upstage the story he is trying to tell: one paying tribute to the healing power of beautiful spaces and—if only for a fleeting moment or a single paycheck—the finer things in life.