There was once a time, a place, a sea-level. Musicians paced the earth like fowl, searching for the next hungry witness. These were the days of the wandering minstrel, the Commedia Dell’arte, the legend that preceded life itself. Musicians grew to wander. Legs stretched abnormally to accommodate a bag and lute. A genetic predisposition to eating unusual berries.
Lucas Brode brings me back to this time that I never knew and have absolutely no proof existed apart from documentation of Syphilitic Outbreaks. However, it is important to remember what you don’t know because you will end up there, eventually. There is this guitar and it is walking away from me; the guitar is walking away from everyone, the guitar’s existence contraindicated by a distant reality atop a tree or in the belly of a whale. Music slips in and out of electromagnetic fields, both predator and prey.
This record is a form of hypnosis. The repetition is seductive. The feedback gets fuzzy and our grasp on reality (here and now in front of a computer = already dubious) deteriorates alongside the fuzz, an act of support. These are the sounds of a gentle tailspin.
I think the only known tragedy is that we ever stopped wandering. Now we’re all confused like some of the wires in this record, sporadic and questionably interfering. There may still be time to recover. We continue this backwards dance a little longer, foot by foot in Renaissance forest until one day the dry cleaner quits hanging shit to carve viola d’amore; we are camped out in a tent taking turns strumming chords that stink of a purely nomadic existence.