Been listening to this LOADS. Big-black edition of Jesse Dewlow’s recent (2016) but rapidly scarce masterclass de hombre solo, now jumped up with artwork comprised with some fittingly rural, transportive rustic photography from his father's archive. Ugh, visions of the country!!
[One tree per person in London, a rather high ratio, apparently. Very thankful for the one oh-so-faithful and air purifying companion but it doesn’t sound like much, or does it??]
Anyway, this sequence of tranquilised themes, gnawed and abstracted by the solitude they were hatched in, stir palpable stillness and blurry romanzzz in yer mind-trap. Softly spluttering machines and downer-than-down vocals, seemingly recorded from the interior of a coffin that’s been refurbished as a delay / reverb unit, are steeped in the pensive dither of a private universe... to listen is almost to pry, but if ye can get over feeling like a real creep for doing so, you will be consumed by the crumbling bedsit-Miss-Havisham narrative of longing...
Nocturnal rumblings that subtly work their way into the fabric of bittersweet cradle-songs, delays that rest and hover like a fog - calmly split by a metronomic waltz and occasionally ruptured by frustrated, overloaded shrills, “52 Weeks…” izza deftly, DEADLY refined, x-ray ramshackle that’s palette and dialectics recall the likes of Joshua Burkett, The Shadow Ring, Dog Lady Island, Vincent Over The Sink or the very finest of the Vrystaete bizz.
Encouraging to find someone coping with being alone and indoors even less well than we are.
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