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Summer sunsets.
Now that the sky turns blue and orange, the natives carry two-seater canoes from the beach to the sea. The fish will be called to the nets tonight.
Close to the palms, among shards of beer bottles, a slow and subdued bass line begins. A little further ahead, where children run with shell bracelets on their ankles, an impassioned guitar lament weaves its way through the grains of sand. From the port, behind the promontories, the sounds of whiskey and rum barrels, played like primordial drums, mark the sailors' time. Dark skin and light eyes. Unkempt beards and worn-out sweaters that battle with the winds by day, and are soaked in alcohol by night.
Summer sunsets, and we cannot tell on this beach what instruments Cloudland Canyon, Kelly Ulhorn, and travel companion David Lovelace play. We do know, however, that they are people who run on the sand, smell of salt, and drink mint and rum, regardless of their origins from Memphis. They craft a truly singular record. Between folk and post-rock, sitar and electric guitars, tribal rhythms and ethereal vocals, the Tennessee group manages to capture with a disarming naturalness a Caribbean sunset.
About thirty minutes of peace and coral. If Ben Chasny ever went to the beach now and then, instead of always staying in the woods, he would have sounded the same.
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