Castanets
Cathedral

“Post blues with a gothic feel,” at least that’s what the manual says. Or neo-folk, neo this, neo that. But the only thing to say is that the sound of absence is slender and expands in infinite concentric circles. At the very center of things, if you ever happen to be there, it's all full of echoes and mirrors. If modernity wants to leave its mark, it will do so with noise, a cascade of anxiety debris from a free form machine that sputters here and there. That happens here too. Sometimes, however, the invocation and terror are left to themselves. And when they are, it’s shivers. “The cancer has reached even the smallest things, the roads lead nowhere.” Well, exactly. Someone wrote that here are the ghosts of Hank Williams and Robert Johnson, all correct I suppose. But are we sure they’re the ghosts? And anyway, small odysseys of nightmares, words carved in the shadow, flames illuminating what we will never be except in the moment of singing. And crackles, jolts, strange sound assaults almost tiptoeing. And everything, everything holds together.