These solo improvisations on nylon-string guitar find David Birchall in a decidedly mellow aspect. Nowhere to be found the cacophonous clatter for which he’s more generally known. All of these eight pieces were committed to tape as the sun set in Manchester summer skies, and each insinuates a distant melody like one of M.R. James’ phantasms frequenting a secluded coastline. Throughout Dusk there emerge distinct echoes of the rarefied reductionism of Japanese guitarists such as Taku Sugimoto and Hisato Higuchi, as well as the bucolic dilettantism of Henry Caravan. Yet, behind the hesitant chording, barely-there slides and harmonic chimes, dwells a humble craftsmanship; technique exhibiting vaporous traces of the American-primitive tradition. Birchall, for all his reserve and discretion, is clearly someone who recognises the flashy arpeggio tumble of a classic Takoma side when he hears one.