Each Tuesday, FADER editor Matthew Schnipper highlights an underappreciated recent release he thinks we need to know about. This week it’s Lindstrom’s Where You Go I Go Too. Download an edit from the album, buy the album and read Schnipper’s thoughts on it after the jump.

One of the most consistently depressing things I do is when I go to the restroom in my office and try to open the lock with the key to my house. This may seem tiny, but I take things really hard. I’m really fond of being home.

This week there is an Australian girl sleeping on my couch. She is a friend of my roommate’s girlfriend (who lives in the Netherlands), and is in town to visit the city, specifically to see the International Furniture Fair, a massive collection of bizarre and occasionally unnecessary modern design. She is very short, has a futuristic bowl cut and is extremely polite and soft-spoken. Sunday night she got to the house just after 11. I was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. She put her things down and coughed a lot. My roommate got her some tea and I went to my room. I fell asleep some time in the next hour, her mousy cough drifting down the hall. When I left for work yesterday morning I thought she was gone, a placid calm over the living room that couldn’t exist if someone living and foreign was there to interrupt. But, sure enough, as I walked out the door she was on the couch, engulfed and infinitely silent. When I saw her last night, she said she stayed in my house all day, happy for some down quiet.

I wanted to feel similar to that when I came home from work last night, aspirational zombie. I made a smoothie, got some kimchee and leftovers, and sat on the couch to do the crossword. The key clues’ answers are various long words in the English language without repeating letters (Switzerland, uncopywriteable). I had a beer, I put my feet on the table. I was going to watch television, but How I Met Your Mother was already over. So I put on a record.

Last summer my friend rented a Benz and we went to the beach with pretty girls and listened to Where You Go I Go Too. I think we shut it off halfway through. I remember being on a bridge. We were late returning the car, incurred a fee. Some time after that, my friend Simon had me over for dinner and played me Where You Go I Go Too slowed down. It’s meant to play at 45, he shifted it down to 33. Played naturally, it’s a peppy album, feverishly funky electronic swiftness. It sounds as though it was played by rich Japanese cartoon characters who live on a big white boat. It sounds as though it wants to feel stressful, but is pure release. It sounds punchy. But slow, that pep congeals into a wondrous, instrumental bemoaning. It’s music for the remembrance of deaths of important people you didn’t know personally, a somber celebration of achievement. Last night I needed a bit of self-important quelling, and put on Lindstrom slow. I was halfway through the second of four sides when the Australian came home. I could hear her poking at the door, unable to figure out how the locks work. So I let her in.