Jessica Bailiff
Hour of the Trace

How beautiful the nineteenth-century maidens are, especially if they move in slow motion. After all, there's no rush, as Achilles will never catch the tortoise.

And anyway it's drone folk, at least that's what the manuals say.

And so: slow build-up, rare resounding clamors, nocturnal grammar...

Infinite variations around the concept of drift.

An amniotic broth that cradles fatigue and welcomes every delicate form, the absent-minded drawing on fogged glass, the dot of light upon a rubbing of eyes.

The first step is a silver hypnosis, the second an acoustic sketch close to collapse. The third is a shoegaze awakening, the fourth a sinister melody, just barely floating.

I slip into slumber, or perhaps I just slip. The cat jumps on the desk.

At track five, it's almost liturgical. Who are you speaking with? There's no answer.

Six is a kind of nothing that transforms into Metal Machine Music on the Milky Way…then hypnosis again, the breath that's a sigh, then a wave...

And you wish it would never end.

At track seven the first thought is Nico, the second is still the nineteenth century, “I sing to wile away the wait,” we're still there...

Meanwhile, the cat is back on the desk.

And I send a kiss to my new cosmic girlfriend whose voice is just a whisper.