Unfortunately, Pan Am hasn't flown in quite some time. The few memories we have now are of blue stewardesses, hijacks, and disaster. Guitars clink like windchimes over subtly rumbling bass. Cold samples hover above the skeleton. When a female chorus suddenly appears deep in the album, it feels like a sprout in ice.
Wires turn to wings.
If Mogwai weren't concerned with film directors and pop stars, they might make such bold statements. Yet, arctic urban ambiance clouds the middle bulk of this album, turning the record into an unwanted lecture on art. It could either be the sound of someone starting a tractor across a frozen field or a low-volume cricket. When the band settles into pulsating ghost-rock, the sly bass and humming guitars can rise a spectre from the corpse. A snowfall can be beautiful in its first hour, but it inevitably becomes gray slush.