Trevor Powers' first album under his own name, 2018's Mulberry Violence, was a stark, dissonant set of glitchy avant-pop songs that seemed to amplify the most vulnerable elements of his earlier work as Youth Lagoon. 2020's Capricorn is a further transformation, consisting of haunting cinematic soundscapes that largely abandon rhythms and lyrics. Powers recorded the album after finding a cabin near the Sawtooth Mountains in Idaho that contained an old piano. He packed up some recording gear and spent a month there by himself, constantly recording and arranging audio. The album's eight pieces weave environmental sounds (rushing wind, chirping insects, rumbling storms) with decayed melodies and distorted interruptions. Organic and synthetic sounds bleed into each other, as sampled noises and voices become instruments, and the scratchy, tape-saturated fidelity contributes to the music's ghostly aura. There are traces of Youth Lagoon's hazy neo-psychedelia in "The Riverine," a curious brew of flute-like textures, submerged pianos, and vocal wisps that ends up being the album's most playful moment. "A New Name" is a weird daydream filled with dissipating piano clouds and fragmented voices that seem to bleat out the word "body." "Blue Savior" is somewhat more relaxing, with smooth sax and burbling synths drifting atop warbling pianos, although the sirens at the end signal potential danger ahead. This fittingly leads into "Pest," easily the album's most frightful piece, filled with distant clunks and suspenseful stabs. "2166" starts out with gentle, innocent piano melodies caked in distortion, but a duet of garbled vocoders makes the uneasiness sink back in. Powers' most abstract and unpredictable work to date, the captivating release uncovers feelings and details that can only be captured in remote isolation, as one is allowed the chance to be deeply observant of the natural world.