There’s a soft spot somewhere amongst the infinitesimal for the folk music of American country, steel cylinders on a finger stressing chords through a story of voice
Take a pause before beginning to say / Peer into / our minds why don’t you, I’d still love it if I could hold onto a song or a sound to hug around the evenings why don’t you. A submission collected between collocations of two people with their hands in each-other’s – and every twitch of a refrain of every denim duvet moment for us is a word within a beautiful melancholy cheery song that’s been written and submitted accordingly… why don’t we listener. // Maybe that’s why I find my current colours some shades of someone’s reflection, stirring to the surface tea, knelt before a narrative, / Maybe it’s the narrative that contains this, or the narrative that some song contains, I see myself listening, the song sees me
“Distant drone hangs on the air”
That’s how a forward-looking vehicle thinks whilst the listeners watch on from the street hubbubs, leaving soon of course, good to lose track of time of course, feeling scared of course
“we’re three weeks from anywhere”
Lateral lyrics and structures that slide into each-other / choruses that never quite come, or already there; maybe this is the time and post where things fit together / together and not together fitted to be so unfitting – hemispheres that revolve around a moment in which a music made sense, made itself at home. / Right on, straight up, yesterday in which .. / .. All alone I recommend the above in the name of Ell Phillips‘ song Call it Home, internetting across – honestly music’s never sounded so honest and at home with itself: excited to hear the whole new album as it comes out soon, keep posted!