Rei’s muse is Chilean Nobel laureate in literature, Gabriela Mistral, whom she honors in "La Otra," borrowing Mistral’s enigmatic and much explored poem of the same name. The interpretations have been many, though they square on women’s tendency towards self-blame and to harbor an often destructive inner, other self.

Channelling Mistral, Rei invites women to reflect on their assuming such burdens. But she also hawks Mistral’s Other as a woman ablaze, who, “where she took her siesta, the grass curled up,” and who radiated “an intense heat that she refused to cool.” I got the feeling from the poem and Rei’s rendition of it that in owning their struggle, they may be alluding to the wages women have historically paid for artistic expression, if not genius.

“La Otra” includes a heavy compliment of flutes and flute-like sounds, as do a number of other songs on this album; the airiness expressed, from gáitas to piccolos, blends into the chorus of Rei’s overdubbed and electronically enhanced vocals mimicking the fluttering reedy pipe sounds of the Andean highlands that the two women share. (Rei hails from Argentina, though she has imbibed the cosmos.) These sounds are counter-parted by spare yet pronounced and grounding percussion, mostly heard from a thick drumhead struck by a mallet. "La Otra” gives us a heady mélange of electronic sound that embodies the conflicted sentiments of the poem.

Coming down from the lofty heights of confessional, penetrating poetry, Rei serves up levity in two personalized pieces that poke fun and a finger at our techno era. “Escarabajo Digital” (Digital Beetle) addresses writer’s block in a song also heavily electronic, again punctuated by a spare and deep drum sound. Rei wags a finger at the stumped one, repeatedly and urgently admonishing him to just put his finger on the key, “get over it,” and fight his way to the other side of the morass.

"Helvética 12” is also admonitory, as in its refrain, “con hache"—the letter ‘h’ in Spanish—Rei addresses an Hispanic compañero who’s sent her an offensive email that omits the silent ‘h’ when naming the ubiquitous Helvetica font; Rei chooses to litanize the minor infractions of orthography rather than to deal with the email’s content, going on to imply, tongue-in-cheek we assume, that the message is symptomatic of the sender’s overall apathy, insensitivity, cluelessness, and we need not go on. Is our clever lyricist implying when she adds, “Remember forever, my dear, the ‘h’ is silent, not invisible,” that what you don’t see or hear, and what seems insignificant, may well hold import? Or is she just having fun—at someone else’s expense?

Musically, the song is given muscle as the assertive drum returns, now bolstering a brief, urban contemporary chorus of Rei’s pipe-like overdubbed vocals. Here, and throughout the album, one can imagine with pleasure all the musical images and influences that come into view as she lets the kaleidoscope’s chips fall as they may.

Rei drips her vocals into a poignant yet tart eulogy to a fallen warrior in "La Caida” as one who fought his early battles in a Superman cape then plummets as a grown person for playing at being infinite or boundless. Nonetheless, with charity and compassion she leaves him with her most profound tear. The melody of "La Caida” is as bittersweet as the lyrics and Rei uses the song’s emotional map to showcase her voice, its range, warming tonality, and command.

Umbral is definingly electronic, showcasing at the same time how a vocalist such as she can seamlessly fold electronic sounds into the timbre of their voice and keep the music still luscious, organic and fetchingly melodic. Rei singularly adds to this feat verses both beautiful and prickly to complete this album of masterful musicianship.

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