Dylan Carlson’s Earth are masters of building emotional weight so slow it dismembers perception. Once-inexorable riffs splintered across distortion, the group have stretched outward over the decades to encompass minimalist doom, ambient country, folk-psychedelia, and psychedelic rock into their time-warpage, a flagrant dismissal of genre that keeps Carlson’s brooding guitar at the center. Embracing improvisation, each performance is a mirage-map, songs blossoming to collapse inward before reconstituting into heaving new shapes.

Over ensuing years the band haven’t shirked experimentation; acoustic strings, cello, organ, pedal steel, bucolic melodies emerged like murked-out ghosts, guest vocals summoned occasionally after decades of strict instrumentalism. In recent works Carlson has pared back effects, focusing on repetition, space, and texture rather than volume alone: savage calms and luminous drifts here dominate. These changes manifest live as meditative expanses broken by bursts of excoriated power, suspended in a dust-flavored aspic of desert twilight.

• Primitive And Deadly, by Earth

• Primitive And Deadly, by Earth