Those waiting on the next Stars of the Lid record can resteasy now as here is another diamond of the Texashinterlands, shining low and weary through the endless fenced-in wild yards andupturned bedroom windows of another druggy afternoon community.Stars come out early when this dry wombsurrounds, 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 theair, the feeling of conscious breath, of thorough body suspension, but rock-gardenclean, sacred sterile, and nearly monolithic in the clarity of each second’snoise. Guitar becomes keyboard becomesair-conditioned wall becomes air itself.
Howling, chiming, cyclical drone patterns can consume the space whilesimultaneously occupying some central issuance-point, some quiet locus in theroom 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 happiestdeath 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 soundsimply made, a comfortable place though inseparable from the ur-primitive impulsethat keeps me slouching back for clues into what is transforming thiseverydayness to pure light, to slow-motion heat. Sisyphus is asprawling meditation of grainy, slow-motion radiance, if derivative then also ahumble and transcendent work.
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