In thirteen or so hours I will be jumping out of a plane. It is a great length to go for a new perspective. I know the Sean that lands will be a different Sean than the one that is jumping. I'm excited to meet him.
There is no softer rhythm than the wind’s feet as it plays the dirt, and leaves, and beach. It collides and coalesces in this particular percussive fashion. I’ve come to know it, on my back and in the sand on Ocean Beach. Kelly Mcfarling’s, ‘Water Dog’ somehow plays the timbre of an atmosphere so low to the ground that I want nothing more than to listen to it face first in a field, eyes closed, and lips curled.
She could play the tall-tale national park commercials on Neverland Island. The sincerity of her voice would be voted the head of the EPA in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and in the underwater remains of Atlantis—though only by all of the creatures that are listening.
So this is when I come to tell you that this album is not for everyone, yet there are hurricane broken fields, and trees that are mourning their favorite leaves. And they need it.
I can see, personally, giving up, especially now, on the human race.
I just want so terribly for Walt Whitman to listen to this album.
I know that in truth she could play it to the waves, and they would come clapping back in thanks for weeks. Where does that leave everyone else? I would say we’re ascending bridges on her melodies, reaching the other side, where the grass is greener.
There is this grace of a soft and stern whisper to these songs, one in which I’m convinced the first oracles were gifted. In that right, if anything, the songs harken a calling to settle down. I’m convinced, among others, that in the song, ‘Records,’ she must have covered her microphones in the fibers of fresh sun soaked cotton sheets. In it I can hear the calm of oncoming calamity that beds possess. I can hear it so softly repeat, among so many couples of people.
This landscape of time-lapse sound plays barrel aged, the instruments are never asking for their notes, they simply play them complimentarily. This is all comprised with the help of Avi Vinocur of Goodnight Texas fame, as well as Tim Marcus on pedal steel and dobro, Oscar Westesson on upright bass, Andrew Brennan on guitars, Graham Patzner on fiddle, Andrew Laubacher playing percussion, John Elliott on piano, and Whiskey Shivers helping out with vocals.
The album moves with a necessary shivering, it is a treasure map for the roots of trees. Though I am no longer getting taller, or pushing to grow, the progressive nature of it is properly awakening, and for that I thank Kelly Mcfarling for ‘Water Dog.’
Water Dog is available on most all avenues of online music retail, more info can be found at https://www.kellymcfarling.com/
A couple weeks ago I reviewed Hamilton for Theatrestorm, it wasn't easy and I didn't do it an ounce of justice, but my editor said it was my best review yet. Click here to check it out!
Also this song, this is my song, I love this song. The wit is utterly unrelenting, it is vulnerable and honest and particular. I'm totally rocking it when I bartend tonight at Churchkey.
I have, I think, taught her to bite me less, and the scratching is showing less scars.
If there is anything I most definitely have taught her it's that meowing will get you nowhere, and I fear that truth leads to an elevated sense of ennui.
And with that her path to nihilism is imminent.
The democratic republic of Liza's brain is a coordinated acceleration of collisions where evolution redlines the sincerity of a kind and cautious nervous system.
There is something unsettling about a woman that doesn’t give off a scent as you lovingly tussle with her on a couch in her apartment. Across the street a hot red neon sign begs PSYCHIC. It had to be one in a million. Her underwear were purple, with a white lace fringe that burgeoned from the lip of her lazy jeans.
When we got to her apartment she ran to use the bathroom, and on her way down the hallway she yelled, I just want gin, with a lot of olives, and a splash of soda water.
After I was done making her drink the olives looked like they should have been ice cubes there were so many. When I handed it to her she smiled and said perfect, just perfect.
Her living room is riding the concave praying arms of two stairwells, and her couch sleeps below its hands.
You don’t have any lemonade, so I squeezed your last lemon in with my gin.
Is it any good?
Have you ever been? My longest finger and two eyes pointed to the forever lit psychic sign. Do they ever close? Those signs always seem to be on.
She drew me back into the couch and when I pushed myself between her ribs I failed to find it. This newfound lack of a scent left me breathing lemon and gin heavy in hopes of coating the space between my lips and her skin with something.
We should go over there and find out what we’re made of, I’ve never been to a psychic.
I wanted an arbiter.