Rob Jacobs

I am probably too exhausted to write about this album.  Sleeplessness is diametric as the oyster is cannibalistic, and in like fashion this record invokes the plodding steps of time and/or late hours in hot tubs.  Do not stick around too long.  Pay attention to the temperature.  If you are asking yourself where satisfaction ends and indulgence begins perhaps you’ve forgotten to inhale.

This record is a long sigh.  A long, gorgeous musical sigh.  This is the sigh of transition, of travel, where you go in your mind while going on Ryanair while on acid after the tribesmen return.  Not tongue in cheek but a tongue in your cheek.

Aspects of this album feel like a history lesson; cities with Ys and Ls and Os in the titles, the vaporization of said cities, the subsequent tilling of land and mushrooms that follows.  A sepia horizon that may have been but can’t be proven as the necessary evidence lies outside the boundary of carbon dating.

This lesson in a record makes you wish that you could glow.  Go beyond glowing.  But you can’t and there is something incredibly sad about this.  Sadness spanning dialectical history up to the emergence of civilization.  Right before this.  Something happened and we could no longer glow.  You can’t know the lack of glow but you feel it.

Kind of like God.  And so, if there are spirits this album has certainly found them, with a mouth trained to open and aspirate in a way proper to spiritual summoning/exorcism.  The spirits are not always kind; there are nasals and sibilants, unwilling to share the same air. It’s fine though, overall.  Historically, it doesn’t always sound great.  If a baby isn’t born screaming it’s dead.   

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