Flying Lotus' Mystical Dreamscape, A Decade Later

His fourth album, "Until The Quiet Comes," helped me through a dark time.

Time is a strange concept nowadays. For some, the calendar stopped somewhere around March 2020, when a deadly virus shut down the global economy and forced us all to stay home. That, coupled with the endless churn of bad news and existential dread, has made it tough to keep up with the days and months. For whatever reason, I can’t get past 2012, when the experimental producer Flying Lotus released his fourth studio album, Until The Quiet Comes, a peaceful comedown from the high-wire velocity of Cosmogramma, his third and most celebrated LP.

Quiet had bouts of nervousness, sure: “Electric Candyman” could score a horror film, and “Heave(n),” with its dark synths, intermittent drum loop and what sounds like a foghorn, resembled music you’d hear in sci-fi thrillers like Blade Runner and War of the Worlds. But the tense moments were few: Over its 47 minutes, FlyLo trekked the state between sleep and consciousness, when the sky fades from black to navy blue, and the mind tries to discern dreams from reality. Of all the albums in his vast discography, I find myself going back to this one often. I think it’s his most focused record, a soothing lullaby meant to soften the gloom of what was happening outside.

FlyLo first envisioned Quiet as a children’s album. “I really wanted to make a record that had this innocence to it,” he told Complex. “I was really into meditation and mystical states, which really, really inspired me. I imagined seeing a whole world you can’t have imagined before.” In that way, Quiet resembled another cosmic children’s album, Elsewhere Junior I, as peculiar music with a mesmerizing sense to it. Elsewhere felt like source material for FlyLo; he funneled disparate sounds and samples into hypnotic streams of psychedelic dance.

But where Cosmogramma felt primed for nightclubs and open-air festivals, Quiet was tailored for headphones and best consumed at night. There was something otherworldly happening, something weird and avant-garde, yet familiar and comforting. You heard the innocence FlyLo spoke of on songs like “Until the Colours Came” and “Putty Boy Strut,” the former a celestial blend of strings and looped soprano vocals, the latter a cartoonish composition of squeaking synths, handclaps and stomping electronic drums. There was the aquatic essence of “Tiny Tortures” and the wandering spirit of “All In,” both evoking the feeling of discovering a new place in some great unknown. Tracks like these signaled a new direction for FlyLo; his previous album exemplified an allegiance to experimental jazz stalwarts Sun Ra and Alice Coltrane (his great-aunt) through restructured arrangements seemingly influenced by them.

Following the release of his debut album, 1983, FlyLo had been mislabeled “post-Dilla” by critics who clamored for the next great underground rap producer. It was October 2006, and the heralded James “J Dilla” Yancey had died earlier that year, leaving a void in his fanbase. There was a certain wistfulness to Dilla’s beats that listeners were drawn to, a drum knock with an almost-indescribable soul. But that’s where the comparisons stopped between Dilla and FlyLo: Where the former rooted his sound in old funk and Detroit electronica, the latter affixed his sound to his native Los Angeles, giving it a distinct airiness, like traveling through space in a drop-top Cadillac. “I love Dilla and who knows where this beat thing would be without him,” FlyLo told The Quietus. “He could flip a boring record and make you feel like you were flying.” So clearly FlyLo was influenced by Dilla, but he was very much his own thing.

By the time he released his breakthrough sophomore album, Los Angeles, in 2008, he was a leader in the city’s famed beat scene and the CEO of his own label, Brainfeeder Records. In a way then, it took courage to put out an album like Until The Quiet Comes, since his past two records had made him a star. But you don’t become great by doing the same ol’ same, and it took strong will to follow such beloved work with music that might alienate your fanbase. Listeners had grown accustomed to the anxious FlyLo, the relaxed one would take some getting used to.

It’s not like Quiet didn’t have bangers. I remember playing “Getting There” so loudly that even stuffy downtown D.C. types had to acknowledge its head-nod factor. Not only did I love the track itself — hard drums, twinkling chimes and Niki Randa’s outstanding voice — I loved the short film attached to it. In the Kahlil Joseph-directed clip, a deceased breakdancer comes back to life, ripping off his blood-stained shirt and sauntering past still bodies. Within the context of this video, it felt like a riff on death and the soul’s journey to the afterlife, without all the sadness. Though FlyLo would further explore this concept on 2014’s You’re Dead!, Joseph's visual makes the transition seem divine and beautiful.

The album was strongest in the middle, where a trio of songs — “See Thru To U,” “DMT Song” and “The Nightcaller” — pushed it from good to great, thanks to two well-timed features. The famed soul singer Erykah Badu appears on “See Thru To U”’s tribal thump, bolstering the track with her unique vocal expression. Frequent FlyLo collaborator Thundercat appeared on “DMT Song” to sing gleefully of the psychedelic drug. “I can take you to a world where you can spread your wings and fly away,” he declared. “As I’m dreaming, wide awake my body never leaves the floor / I never want to come back / I belong where I am at.” It led to “The Nightcaller,” by far the most vigorous track on the album, and the one aligned closest to FlyLo’s previous aesthetic. A Cali-inspired funk tune, it sounded like a boombox on full blast with the bass turned to 10.

I always found myself drifting to “Hunger” and “Phantasm” toward the album’s back end. In 2012, my career as a music journalist was very much in limbo, and there were times when I didn’t know where the next check was coming from, or if my perspective even mattered. It’s hard to consider yourself worthy when you can’t buy groceries, and your pride won’t let you accept money from loved ones who just want to make sure you eat decently. It’s tough to see light when you know there’s an audience who loves the same esoteric music as you, but you don’t have the caché to cover it on a large scale. There were plenty of nights when I’d drive to the open mic with “Hunger” up loud, letting Randa’s voice, FlyLo’s rumbling percussion and Thundercat’s bass score my depression. I just knew that I had something to offer, and there was something in that song that helped gather my thoughts. I think it was Randa who hit me the most. She sounded like a specter, sent from another realm to let me know it’s gonna be okay.

“Phantasm” hit me in a more practical way. Before I moved to New York City in 2016, I’d travel there frequently for shows, interviews and meetings, often taking the bus back to D.C. late at night to avoid sleeping in expensive hotels. One night, in particular, there was a glowing purple light throughout the bus cabin, and the song — with its faint drums, electric piano and Laura Darlington’s angelic voice — made me feel secure in my travel. Like “Hunger,” it was a soothing balm, a subtle reminder to keep going.

Maybe that’s why I can’t get past the year 2012: It was a make-or-break year for me, and Quiet was there during a bleak time. That’s why I still play it today. It helps me revisit a year when things weren't certain. Though the blessings are abundant, it’s a prompt to keep striving for glory I can’t quite see yet. FlyLo didn’t rest on his laurels, so why should I?