Those waiting on the next Stars of the Lid record can rest
easy now as here is another diamond of the Texas
hinterlands, shining low and weary through the endless fenced-in wild yards and
upturned bedroom windows of another druggy afternoon community.
Stars come out early when this dry womb
surrounds, when Texan hills and houses become miniature ziggurats under heat-lamp,
and faces adopt the timelessness of cut Roman masks without hesitation. The music reflects the gauzy thickness of the
air, the feeling of conscious breath, of thorough body suspension, but rock-garden
clean, sacred sterile, and nearly monolithic in the clarity of each second’s
noise. Guitar becomes keyboard becomes
air-conditioned wall becomes air itself.
Howling, chiming, cyclical drone patterns can consume the space while
simultaneously occupying some central issuance-point, some quiet locus in the
room like a melodious pulpit obscured as a shoe or a sideways piece of trash,
riddled in glyphic writing and piping away with pieces of the world’s happiest
death knell, maybe the sound Sisyphus likes when he’s doing normal stuff, cooking,
mowing the wild lawn or just laid-out between the bed and the burning window.
Pacione makes primordial ambient drone sound
simply made, a comfortable place though inseparable from the ur-primitive impulse
that keeps me slouching back for clues into what is transforming this
everydayness to pure light, to slow-motion heat. Sisyphus is a
sprawling meditation of grainy, slow-motion radiance, if derivative then also a
humble and transcendent work.
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