Musik from a Private Hell

Voice is an excess, a surplus of the body; it is at once outside and inside. It can be listened to peacefully, but it can also generate the anguish of a voice attempting to escape from language, setting the logos free in the wilderness, scavenging in the semiotic debris. We glimpse the wound, the fall into this private Hades, in the sounds of profane, everyday technologies, the changes and glissandos of banjos and cellos that tear up the tropes of Heavy Metal and Southern Rock -- forgotten welding, archeologies of industrial symbols beyond our reach. Only towards the end of the album do we experience nausea, on the final tracks, adjacent to psychedelic states fed by sinister efforts to tear out the internal organs and destroy the calm that came before in an effort to stop time. A record of songs dependent on a million bits of exhausted cultural knowledge, orchestrated in the sounds of a punitive intimacy, always surrounded by the ghostly presences that allow it to escape urban anxiety, sketching, in a warmer light, the Desert Always Yet to Come.