the cover leers, grotesque and 3am terrifying, like a magritte vache via the black lodge. here be horrors, i’m guessing. a lynchian spectre, a fractured timeline, a fucked dream…

assume there is a narrative at play: dried blood, missing person, an empty house, a potential event. signifiers for some unspoken / undefined happening. brittle, broken points along a line that was once lucid but now bends obliquely, eschews linearity.

storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it. so said hannah arendt. and there’s story here, but understanding comes as osmosis. aurally it’s a drift in space, down wires; it’s synaptic, mnemonic.

reductionally what it is, is ambient. what it is, is drone. what it is, is noise. reductive to the point of pointlessness. it’s so much more.

yeah it ain’t clear. all smudged polaroid abstraction and a sweatpalmed philip k. dick tension. each track a symbolic sketch, a page torn from diary, a xeroxed note, a closed circuit video transcript. scraps of evidence, a puzzle to be solved.

the music’s a garbled fax message, a prince of darkness future broadcast. it’s sound as pointillist assemblage; textured, transgressive, observational.

if there’s voices (i’m convinced there’s voices) words and syntax are mangled, schmeared, unrecognisable. atop the ebbing hoom, a kind of computer slobber, unsettling and aggressive.

reminds me (in ways i’d struggle to properly explain) of bowie / eno’s outside. oblique violent little fictions, but bleached, scraped and sparse, buried under a numbing blanket, pierced by howls of impressionist electronics.

the whole thing unspools, veering: intense, soothing, beautiful, ruined, other. play on random and piece this goddamn jigsaw together. there are no endings after all…

april larson / muzan editions