Daniel Bachman can play with unblinking thunder, rattling your core with percussive resonance. He holds your head to the heavens and pulls your heart to the earth. The guy evokes huge natural forces, a relentless summoning of space and time, through a little wooden box.

Which is why “Coming Home” is so startling in its patience and restraint. An apparition of a slide melody slowly appears over a rocking-chair-heartbeat thumb drone. Ringing suspensions curl together in wind chime sighs. Reserved longing seeps through the wavering poles of the slide’s vibrato. The tone is so clean you could eat off of it. Bachman pours himself out like measures of molasses, and we must parse through the pool like the divination of old.

This is stop-what-you’re-doing music, an experience that cuts through the florescent fog and tastes like blood. The Sublime can be slow and recollected too, the unsaid drowning out the fiercest spectacle.

(The record is the first release for start-up record club “Singles Club,” a quarterly 7” mail-in with accompanying media. They’re in the midst of crowd-sourced funding now, so drop ‘em a dime if you can.)