55 Deltic
You Could Own An American Home

THE REVIEW

I'm at home, sitting at the table, listening to this record that just arrived on vinyl. After the first two tracks, I get a shiver: okay, the record is lo-fi, but I didn't remember it being this gritty. I look at the needle and it's full of dust; I clean it and start again.

I'm at home, sitting at the table, listening to this record.

I observe the Venetian plain through the window, a dark-night color, focusing on the lights, of few colors, that dot the view. I look at the illuminated bell tower that appears behind the hill to the left of the woods. Once an oak grove, now a more banal and invasive forest of acacias.

*a call.

I'm at home, sitting at the table, thinking that this band got inebriated with lysergic fumes among the vast expanses of the United States, not near Sherwood Forest, not near Major Oak. Even there, even there, oaks.

55 Deltic. It puffs. It slows down and is forgotten.

English slowcore is permeated with broken dreams and emo of vacuous clarity, post-rock I'd say. Both Codeine and American Football, but also Seam, Duster, Bedhead, and even Chesterfield by Bluetile Lounge are very close.

Slowcore seems easy, yet it becomes an impassable canyon, a monolithic and dark monument where emotion and human nature are enclosed. Slowcore is space, not time, not music, where one can immerse and lose oneself among the silences and walls of frequencies, already faded away.