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Rating:
In the spring of Post-Rock, it was lovely to sit on the edge of a lush meadow. Sneaky and whimsical gusts of sonic grasses hovered in mid-air; melancholy breezes slipped into our bodies, igniting thoughts, and we sneezed aborted dreams; eccentric and vividly colorful dreams.
Fragile psychedelia was disturbed by mocking Dadaist hilarity; slender piano airs were ruffled by compulsive spasms of cacophonous clarinets. Schizophrenic surges of frenzied For Carnation.
Post-Rock watercolors were reflected in broken mirrors; clumsy images, odd arrangements. A sleepwalking voice chanted nursery rhymes under a glass bell; distant and detached poems.
Grubbs and O’Rourke trapped multicolored butterflies in the harmonic box of their acoustic guitars. Tiny drops of dew blessing caterpillars, tadpoles, sprouts, and all things in becoming.
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