Baths is happy now, haven't you heard? If you were invested in the brooding, at times cruel pictures painted across Obsidian and its companion Ocean Death, the relative brightness of Cerulean may be such a distant, differing memory such as to make Romaplasm a complete auditory shock on first take. It's hope, this time around.

While I'm loathe to guess as to the inner-workings of Will Wiesenfeld's personal life, it seems fair to wager he may have found love. Or, at least, that he's decided to imagine and create the feeling. Whereas his last work practically sank under its own detached weight, he's now open to everything, dashing after every idea and bursting with bright emotion. The gentle, emotive embrace gracing the cover art is a slight hint, no? If his soul felt a bit black uttering things such as, “Scared of how little I care for you,” the music here practically implodes speakers with its range of color.

Opener 'Yeoman' sets up something of an abstract journey, presenting Romaplasm as nearly a goofy quest for romantic idealism. There is no sinister cynicism to be found here. The journey through fantasy boggles by even bringing Jon Anderson to mind: imagine! We've been brought to a place where a Baths / Olias of Sunhillow comparison makes sense.

To be sure, Wiesenfeld can't entirely escape his insecurities, slipping in the likes of, “I'm queer in a way that's failed me,” on the intimate 'Human Bog', but whereas once this would have surely been delivered with a sense of bitter defeat, the words here sound more akin to graceful acceptance. No less, he follows his doubts with the soar of 'Adam Copies', finally allowing the jubilant, loud noise of the music behind him become so dominant that even he screams towards its finish, his words still have no power to batten it down.

In fact, Romaplasm often sounds much like its creator allowing his music to overwhelm his feelings, his words shifting between extremes, either in total, crushing focus (the all too brief 'Lex') or pushed towards the outer edges of his skittering, frantic presentations. Nonetheless, even when choosing to relegate himself as a backdrop, this is perhaps the most simply alive Baths has yet sounded on record, retaining enough of his emotional heft, while allowing for an entirely new collage of flashy, elated songcraft. This is Baths triumphant.