Let’s imagine a robot made entirely of memory. It’s not cold or chrome but warm and humming, stitched from cello strings, tape loops, and unfinished dreams. That’s the strange and stirring world of "Wash", the latest release from Los Angeles-based guitarist and composer Brady Cohan - an album that flows not so much like water, but like a memory of water: something blurred, disjointed, luminous, and ever so slightly haunted.

Cohan is no stranger to musical shapeshifting. Known both for his film scores and his collaborative ambient work with artists like Sam Gendel and Sam Wilkes, his voice here is quieter, more inward, but no less ambitious. "Wash" was born out of a film that never made it to screen - a speculative tale of grief, loneliness, and robotic resurrection - and you can feel its cinematic bones even as they dissolve into the vapor. The tracks drift in and out like scenes half-remembered, where instruments murmur rather than sing, and nothing ever quite resolves.

The album opens with “Reuse”, a word that feels clinical but here is loaded with spiritual undertones. Is memory a form of reuse? Is grief? The piece crackles with breath and static, a distant cousin to the textural collages of Rafael Anton Irisarri (who mastered the album) or perhaps the quieter ghost-chants of Tim Hecker’s "Virgins". Then come the “Untitled” themes, originally conceived as sketches for that unrealized film - these are more than placeholders. They hover like sonic polaroids: cello (played beautifully by Noah Hoffeld) sighs into modular synths, tape loops wrap around harmonics like vines, and it’s unclear if the sounds are coming from a machine or a deeply sentimental human heart with a patch cord.

"Wash" doesn’t offer much in the way of melodic anchors - there are no choruses to hum or climaxes to anticipate - but that’s part of the beauty. These aren’t songs so much as slow unfurlings. “Loop 8” teeters between ambient and musique concrète; “Deconstructed” features a spectral viola line (from Nadia Sirota, no less) that sounds like it’s trying to remember itself in real time. The title track pulses with something like urgency - until it doesn’t. Cohan knows when to pull away, to leave us suspended in that golden half-light between structure and entropy.

One could label this "ambient", but that feels a bit like calling Tarkovsky’s "Solaris" a sci-fi flick - it misses the point. Cohan isn't creating background music; he's sculpting emotional topographies. His guitar barely registers as a guitar anymore. Instead, it acts as a whispering conduit between the acoustic and electronic, the earthly and the synthetic. If "Studies, Vol. 1" suggested that he was good at shaping moods, "Wash" confirms he’s now a cartographer of inner states - grief, nostalgia, reverie - all blurred into one shimmering continuum.

And then comes the finale: “Epilogue”. At over 13 minutes, it could have been indulgent. Instead, it’s quietly devastating. A slow spiral of tone and dust, of dissolution and return, it feels like both an end and a beginning, the part in the dream where you realize you’ve been dreaming all along, and yet you don’t want to wake up.

So yes, "Wash" is about death and its replicas. About memory and its distortions. About grief that loops and skips like an old cassette tape. But it’s also about how music - this music - can make even the imagined echo feel real, even the absence feel full. Cohan has crafted a kind of sonic séance for things lost or never quite born, and in doing so, he’s given us a strangely beautiful meditation on what it means to remember, to forget, and to start again.

And if it’s a little sad? Well, sadness has its own tempo, and "Wash" plays in perfect time.