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Rating:
Tenderly retro, oldfashioned.
Woven with the velvet of the days and the impalpable thread of simplicity.
A record like a revelation, made with intangible art. The art of a kid who writes songs like gems, like tree leaves, natural, spontaneous.
A faint blend of folk, pop, Donovanish elements, of who knows what else. But all this, as if suddenly, disappears.
What remains is a handful of trembling songs, made of those distances, of those curly and mustachioed dogs in the yards, of those green late spring gardens, of those Teddybears, of those public libraries full of books with gilded spines and worn out, so familiar.
I do not know who Alex Pester is.
I only know that he writes timeless and sublime songs, and that is enough for me.
Tracklist
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