. The Six Parts Seven [Everywhere][and Right Here] Suicide Squeeze he power of music is a strange and entirely incomprehensible thing. Why does it energize us? Why does it speak so powerfully to us? Why does it have such a profound effect on our mental well-being? And, most importantly for this present purpose, why can a brand new album from the Six Parts Seven send a person's mind racing back through years-old memories?       We all have special albums that affected us in a certain way or were all wrapped up in some important event in our past. It's no wonder, then, that these albums are sure-fire shortcuts to that most hackneyed of metaphorical roads: "Memory Lane." Search hard enough, however, and you'll discover that an album you've never heard before can have the same effect. It's quite a conundrum, isn't it? After all, one cannot have made a special connection with something brand new.       The Six Parts Seven make light, airy, melancholy compositions that seem tailor-made to strike a chord in the vulnerable human heart, and the nostalgia junkie in me can't get enough of it. It's all found in the combination of clean, picked guitars, wistful piano, echoing vibes, tasteful drumming and, the coup de grāce: lap steel; each lonesome sigh manipulated by Ben Vaughan's fingers is a calculated tug on the proverbial heartstrings.       [Everywhere]'s first song, "What You Love You Must Love Now," opens peacefully with gentle, interweaving guitars, but it quickly expands to include the full band. From then on, the album is on cruise control. It maintains a casual and relatively constant tempo, and the songs are uniformly pristine and pretty. Still, the instrumentation changes often, and the songs, though structured, have an almost improvisational feel.       The album's overall sound is more or less a continuation of the band's previous LP, Things Shaped in Passing. Whereas that album seemed to drag a bit in the middle, however, [Everywhere] is strong throughout, and it also seems more confident. Long periods of percussionless music, such as in "Saving Words for Making Sense," don't feel lifeless, and, likewise, songs that last for nine and a half minutes (I'm looking at you, "We Can Just Make Out") don't seem like overkill.       An album highlight is "A Blueprint of Something Never Finished," a well-structured, lively and uplifting piece that showcases each member and instrument perfectly. In addition, it bears defined musical sections that are as close to "hooks" as you're likely to find on this album. Somehow managing to seem concise even at seven and a half minutes, the song offers the whole of the Six Parts Seven: the joy, the peacefulness and, of course, the glorious melancholy.       This is the kind of music that goes perfectly with late night solo drives along deserted highways. It's a catalyst for reflection, and it will put you at ease. It's about triumphs and failures and life, and it's strangely, incomprehensibly powerful. -Chris Skillern