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I stare at the rain through the glass of a window, I stare at the rain and the drops of time slow their race.
I isolate the segments of the hours, I split the hairs of the minutes: so many things, too many things.
Apology of the hic et nunc, priest of the infinitely small, oracle of the kairos; “Faint” is a Phoenix that rises every second from its ashes, imperceptibly renewing its plumage, a microcosm in constant becoming where the pieces are born children of what was and die fathers of what will be.
Electronic screenplay that is flat and regular only in appearance, in reality shaped and refined by the spotlight of countless field recordings that simmer the sound slowly. Long, fluid, uniform streams of consciousness dotted with automatic associations of dancing synapses.
Strange hybrid between the smoky loops of a more diluted Eluvium and the organic multiplicities of a less 90’s Robert Rich.
The Harold Budd of “Pavilion of Dreams” re-created the coordinates of the firmament? Deupree re-qualifies the daily life of a man in listening in the tingling of the drowsiness; hidden locks click in the all-knowing light of the moon, mysterious levers trigger the wheels of emotional gears.
Have you ever seen a photograph of your mother when she was twenty? There is something familiar and something strange. Who is that person? We recognize the look, but that particular light startles us. We know where the record will take us, but those diffuse asperities, those circular arpeggios, those fluttering eyelashes, outline unforeseen paths.
Lowercase psychedelia bathed in the programmatic opacity of the more subdued Labradford.
Faded languors in the relentless continuum and elusive epiphanies of a floating consciousness, mood measured to the millimeter and languid, indolent composure.
Memories like a tulle fade the present.
Memories like a tulle fade the present.
Let's try to isolate the segments of the hours, let's try to split the hairs of the minutes: so many things, too many things…
… The rain, indifferent, continues to fall.
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