The subtleties and invoked mysteries that are this music are of a transcendental quality at which I can only sling unworthy linguistic mud. Here, the 15 minute angst of the post-me mimetic generation crashes headlong into the cell of been-there ambient psychoacoustic paddings and the future threatens to be born by steaming technological Caesarian, but remains in epic, languid, arcane suspense like a Greek chorus of sanguine cherubim, ripe as plums in a dawn which they can see, but of which they dare not speak. The fine literal edge on this musical guillotine both disjoins and unifies, both gives context to and randomly scatters the delicate grenades of our preconceptions again and again until we ask the question "where is music?" But let us not insinuate that these dualities imply anything as artificial or terse as the polemics of balance, instead the listener is immersed in the raw data of life and death itself, the very logos of time forged in the moment of becoming and unbecoming, creating and destroying, with no more apology or intellectualization than one gets, say, from the light of the moon, or a dog which vomits on one's shoe. One enters this music as one would enter the many-fronded Platonic grotto of one's own primal longings.
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