The Antlers
Familiars

Isn't it strange to feel completely forgotten even when we live in proximity? There are relationships we maintain over time, yet one party forgets the other. It happens. It's similar to the mechanical approach between coworkers, but in the aforementioned case, we consider them friends. A faded photograph: the illusion lies in the moment it was taken, not in the time that has deteriorated it. It's not a matter of convenience to remain connected; many people remain in our lives like ghosts, for some, most of them.

We cannot grasp the essence of those in front of us; what we create is a sketchy watercolor portrait. In our pursuit to know ourselves in this life, we tend to forget that others can help us equally in this endeavor. The knowledge of “things” is secondary from my point of view; it nonetheless derives from a product of someone other than ourselves.

I put at the center of the universe the ghost of myself, who constantly forgets and is forgotten. Time may perhaps hold sway; with those we deal with more, we have the burden of forgetting less, of committing to outlining the friend, the lover, the life companion. But neglect always hovers above our shoulders.

Even “dear prudence” is nothing more than distrust, a vital sister for multitudes. Yet, we are never alone even when we have no one; the ghosts of memories shape our actions. Sometimes I wonder if an intense glance from a stranger is not more significant than two hours spent with the same company, from which you know not to expect anything else. Some flee to places seeking more stimulating paradigms, others plant roots more mentally than physically from the start. The difference is probably made by those who leave from within, disowning themselves.

At this moment, more than ever, I am embracing doubt as doctrine. This implies other issues that might be deemed trivial. However, the very fact that we write, I find a remarkable act. We strive not to be ghosts even through our fingertips.

In this setting, music does not acquire a different connotation from that of elusiveness, yet it reminds me that the passing of time may not take on the expected rigidity of a tongue beating against the palate, of a dryer humming, of the sound made by a turned page. “Just” strive to enter our passion, embrace the sound that colors time. Let's allow our listening to become real and focus. I try to do it, but sometimes I even forget this.

Forms of art are destined for immortality, and for this reason, a glance at a painting, a listen to an album is a moment of immortality or elevation.

The Antlers, or their ghosts, I find them elegant, with their feet on the ground and heads in the clouds. It's not sophisticated music, but it shines like stars on a mild night. With the right volume and the right sense of doubt accompanying you, you might surrender to these melodies. The album opens with a bit of mellowness; indeed, Palace feels like a Sufjan Stevens lost in a candy store. We proceed into rarefied territories with Doppelganger, where at first my few neurons recall it to the young Tom Waits and then to the more refined Lambchop. Hotel perhaps best embodies the style of the New Yorkers: immediacy and a touch of ethereal elegance. Surely other associations relate to the Walkmen, slowed-down Wild Beasts, Elbow.

Familiars is a succession of ghosts, familiar figures, memories, fragments of life, flashes of joy and sorrow. It's a waltz of a heart that expands in space seeking footholds.