Dave Fischoff
Winston Park

Whispered sounds, small lo-fi gems, and an unforgettable fragility. This is what "Winston Park" is composed of.
Dave Fischoff, a guitarist with a reflective and profound soul, composes songs that seem like abstract entities, hushed presences that float in the stereo, but like delicate colored butterflies, they fly over our heads and trace gentle and fascinating arcs.

The esteemed label Secretly Canadian unlocks this chest of gems, to be listened to in the private corner of one's inner world, Dave's barely perceptible voice guides us through life's fragility and with domestic sounds opens universes of deep acoustic experimentation that rarely find such completeness in other artists. The same album represents the pinnacle of his career, yet also conveys the sensation of being a series of unrepeatable insights. I bitterly notice that since 1998, only a few other artists (Dean Roberts, for example) have reached these emotional and delicate peaks.
There are seven barely audible songs, but the absolute silence around us must allow us to appreciate even the breath of these fragile moments that open with "Happy Birthday, Dear Norman". A track with sounds derived from the surrounding environment, some noisy nuances, and a slight aura of mystery that enriches its compositional pathos, yet always with extreme tranquility and sweetness, continues with "First Sleep After the Riots" which, in my opinion, encapsulates the spirit of the album and immediately divides those who appreciate it from those who cannot endure it.

It's useless to hide that boredom is an integral part of this album. I am not surprised to find myself often dozing off when this CD spins in the player, but every time I open an eye in a light sleep, I hear passages of intimate beauty that make me turn in bed with a satisfied smile, as if my mother were still telling me stories of medieval princes and princesses. Positive boredom in a sense, boredom that transforms into musical awareness and acknowledgment of quality. Certainly, the soporific spirit of lo-fi can be somewhat irritating, so barely perceptible that it can test one's patience, but Dave doesn't care and creates a simulacrum of himself in solitude and in these minutes of music. "Sallow" retains a slightly folk root, but when you think you've caught the butterfly emerging from the speakers, you suddenly see it perched on your nose fluttering its wings and understand that it is not capturable.

Dave Fischoff's music should not be approached with thoughts of what it could be, it should not be understood as an underground trace of potential great folk songs, it should be seen as an inner analysis and only, very only, in his room does he carry out personal mental journeys that touch electronic, ambient, and pop realms with the tip of his fingers without invading them.

He opens the door to his room to these worlds, but remains on the threshold, whispering to the listeners' ears hesitant words, soft sounds, and small brilliant ideas.