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...because yes, in the end there's really nothing more than an acoustic guitar - simple - and a voice - simple - but if you pay attention to the music - or perhaps if the music decides to pay attention to you, who knows - you realize that you can become small - and simple - a hummingbird, and hover right in front of the guitar and feel the strumming like a cool breeze around you, and the guitar is your flower and you are there fluttering, sipping the nectar of pure talent and you don't even have to struggle to beat your wings - no, it's the whispers of Andrew - evanescent and sweet - and Ben - icy he is, and mellow, and immense as usual - that lift you up, you loved them in American Analog Set and Death Cab For Cutie, and you didn't expect that, in four acoustic pieces each, their melodic taste could shine this way - stripped bare by the essentiality - and you float and enjoy the nectar of pure talent, and you imagine them there - who knows where - in a house? "Home" - who knows which one - sitting and unaware, singing embroidery of life - paint, water, sheets, wallpaper, willows, hills, daily fears and fantasies - and it doesn't last long, 23 minutes, but in those 23 minutes you can't help but think that perhaps the music couldn't care for you in a better way. Discover the review
...because yes, in the end there's really nothing more than an acoustic guitar - simple - and a voice - simple - but if you pay attention to the music - or perhaps if the music decides to pay attention to you, who knows - you realize that you can become small - and simple - a hummingbird, and hover right in front of the guitar and feel the strumming like a cool breeze around you, and the guitar is your flower and you are there fluttering, sipping the nectar of pure talent and you don't even have to struggle to beat your wings - no, it's the whispers of Andrew - evanescent and sweet - and Ben - icy he is, and mellow, and immense as usual - that lift you up, you loved them in American Analog Set and Death Cab For Cutie, and you didn't expect that, in four acoustic pieces each, their melodic taste could shine this way - stripped bare by the essentiality - and you float and enjoy the nectar of pure talent, and you imagine them there - who knows where - in a house? "Home" - who knows which one - sitting and unaware, singing embroidery of life - paint, water, sheets, wallpaper, willows, hills, daily fears and fantasies - and it doesn't last long, 23 minutes, but in those 23 minutes you can't help but think that perhaps the music couldn't care for you in a better way.
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