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by on May 27, 2015

the molochs, sleep in doom, ep, lolipop records, 2015, lopie, lo pie, lo pie music Crown Larks // Blood Dancer
Spacelung/Landbreathing Records
3.5/5 Pies

Recommended Track: Blood Mirage

Crown Larks, forgive me, but I’ll parallel your brusque, Louisville-rock, ebbing Chicago free jazz improvisation(?) with one, long, seemingly bizarre, off kilter sentence, that zips around, like a speedy little lark, in search of a juniper, bush, to chirp at, berries to sip on, tonic to quench my arid soul, because mmm, mmm, mmm, your debut full length, Blood Dancer, released on Spacelung/Landbreathing records, is everything earthen, everything lost, everything blessed, everything radical, everything earnest, everything hopeful that I’ve abandoned in pursuit of my faux life, in my fake city, driving around in my plastic car, switching jobs, forgetting my pen, mismatching my socks, drifting through days, pausing relationships, weaving my head, switching my lens, bobbing in the surf, carving snow angels in the sand, stuttering, cold-clocking sentence fragments, stringing endless lists of who-cares, blindsiding pseudo jargon, spitting out patois, because like, that would totally…what? render in language what your record achieves, but who am I, what do I do, to compare, you, would you prefer a comparison, say, “Don Caballero if they stopped at a suburban laundromat”, or “Neu! but if Will Oldham joined them for a sax jam”, or “your aunt’s wind chimes if they were made of gongs and winds hit 90 kph” and kudos, there are wind instruments, saxophone, flute, flugelhorn, trumpet, and there are synth blips who lost WiFi (no directions on Google Maps), and sure, the guitar strings sound are frustrated, and I dunno, there’s a maj7 chord or two, or three, but who cares, we’re dancin’ about architecture, baby, and the drummer didn’t screw up, but the high hats, open, it’s caught in a riptide, and I can’t shake it, so forgive me, Crown Larks, I’m going to come up for air… and let the gif do the talking.

Blood Dancer reminds me of the swirling bag in American Beauty—improvised, isolating, and describing it automatically makes you sound like a stupid asshole.

 

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