Pumice
Peebles

Beneath a thick layer of lava lies kiwiland. In a hidden cavity from the world, a peaceful craftsman's cave, dedicated to crafting crystals of thick light like snow that pierce pupils.
In the slowed, isolated world, the screeching rustle of taut strings echoes from a distance, opening breathlessly onto marine landscapes, made for well-covered people trained for the storm.

Pumice is the artist of the moment. "Peebles," consequently, the pebbles to mark the way home that gradually becomes closer, like in a dream, growing rounder and more perceptible. And then, to find the way back, "Eyebath" starts with a bang, erupts, splashes, explodes like a volcano, distortedly, rhythmically, in bursts, with the accelerator down. Then a series of jolts for tumbles in the desert of nothingness; symphonies for winter games, chimes, nudges, logs in the fireplace. New Zealand as a heart of darkness to be caressed and "Stopover" that stops and starts again, gently devours all the fashionable lo-fi made in the USA.

"Northland," the national anthem of pale kids, skids in the wind. "Spike/Spear" is feedback that blends other northern elements, submerged by the pure white honesty of friend Pumice. And so, one feels part of his almost self-indulgent mythology as well as the desire to do everything alone; we are there among the peaks of the ukulele and something that resembles a breath, keyboard, flugelhorn: "Both Beast." We are almost home.
Our journey to the end of the white desert ends in the last track, a surplus of style, relaxation in the arms of a fairy. And the girls from here have another skin, an area smooth with the cherubic whiteness of eternal nights and aurora borealis. Everything is understood in "Pipi," the masterpiece of the entire piece: opioid slow motion that falls on white legs, caresses lower loins, tickles, touches, and flees; it could be the love song of winter past, without a voice to sing: that piano with notes like light flakes, swan feathers; the noise is outside, outside the immensity. The feeling is inside, among the sheets warmed by a girl's body to kiss, gazing at nothingness. And the day, just begun, is already over.
Masterpiece.