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Is the world swaying like a whore? Stay calm and stare at a wall. Are the morsels life serves too bitter? Spread your jaws and swallow them in one gulp.
Have the wisdom of a cat and the stomach of a snake.
And close the shutters.
A mysterious album like the sound of a dusty chest that no one ever opens, an album that has the sweet smell of the pages of a moldy old book.
Pieces that speak the secret language of objects. Their constant rustle that drowns the basso continuo of shadowy samples, their material and sticky crackle that drowns the timid arpeggios of a sleepless Dave Pajo, of a Dave Pajo who finds no harmonic bed on which to rest.
The wall clock says something to the breadcrumbs scattered on the floor, the turntable needle glances sideways at the spoon swimming in the sink.
As if Richard Chartier's cold-blooded avant-garde were warming itself by the fireplace, as if Taylor Deupree's concrete details were finally coming home after a walk in the moonlight.
Am I a loner? Poor fools.
Have, above all, the stubbornness of a ray of sunshine that filters through the shutters, encapsulating within itself that dust of sensations that have no name.
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