Artist: Dean McPhee
Title: Son of the Black Peace
Label: Blast First
As well as reaching into the land when trying to describing Dean McPhee’s signature sound, I also seem to find myself reaching for spatial metaphors. There is something in the interaction between the spidery tendrils of his guitar lines as they spool outwards and upwards and the resonant space these vaporous entities vault into that encourages a kind of cosmological speculation: like the current standard model of the universe we adhere too, this music seems to create its own space as it travels, a space that acts like a huge echo-chamber in which the piped silver of his bright figures glimmer and vibrate.
Read the rest of the review over at The Liminal.
Cloud Forest by deanmcphee
Mountain*7 - for the person with nothing better to do
...last night I played Meditations
& it told me what to do
Live, you crazy mother
We have some impatience with the sort of prosaic, everyday things of life, that sort of whimsical patience that other countries may have. That's really painful to endure: to be minor and so forth. We leap for the sublime. You might also say that American literature and culture begin with Paradise Lost. I always think there are two great symbolic figures that stand behind American ambition and idealism. One is Milton's Lucifer and the other is Captain Ahab. These two sublime ambitions that are doomed. I suppose this is too apocalyptic to put in this way, but it's the Ahab story of having to murder evil... What one finds wrong with American culture is the monotony of the sublime... Art is always done with both your hands in America. The artists finds new life in it and almost sheds his other life.
Bert Jansch in 1965
A fresh batch of minimal reviews over at the Liminal. I threw some words at Corrupted, Ricardo Donoso and Horseback.