Mess Esque
Jay Marie, Comfort Me

Some records capture the moment perfectly and are exactly what you are right then and there. So, after looking at yourself, a smile escapes and you end up inside the same photograph. The voice of this girl and the music swirling around it are two instances of madness that suddenly coincide, or else two little butterflies brushing past each other as they flutter, and all you can do is watch them, half asleep. You can't even see these guys; they play in a shadowy corner, the melodies come through muffled, with that slight out-of-sync feeling you get when you realize you're dreaming. Here it is, then: the luminous filigree of a sound in perpetual wandering, the psychic keyboard, the guitar turning on and off in a million sparks, and the voice that's like your desk mate in a parallel universe just steps away. You wouldn't think it, but here we're talking about death, about someone who left quietly in their sleep, and it is in sleep that we continue to remember them. Between psych folk, just plain folk, and a few pop numbers—the kind that make your day.