Yet another late retrieval from this derelict man’s promo archive.
Blacked Out Passages was released in 2014, on a limited edition CD. That disc was chosen this afternoon amidst a hundred items on a shelf. Why? Call it “the randomness of pick” to fight, somehow, a state of tension caused by habitual annoyances.
Loneliness and silence. Rare commodities. And people keep throwing them away for fear.
Lost Trail are a husband-and-wife multi-instrumentalist duo; their family name is Corsa, the Italian word for “race” or “run”. The music they make – of which, I realized today, this is just a little sample in between several dozens of releases – is all but, based as it is on extremely gradual developments. Or decays.
The Corsas have already been favorably reviewed by various entities dealing with contemporary sound. I’m glad to add myself to that list, with culpable-as-ever delay. They are indeed quite good.
The hazy gray photo on the cover almost tells it all. The sonic milieu is mostly drone-ish, blurry, as distant as a remote memory. However, as it happens when a slap of reality abruptly wakes us up from torpor, Zachary and Denny can truly handle the abrasiveness of a mass of guitars, possibly strengthened by other sources of old-boned interference (courtesy of actual instruments, or malfunctioning tape machines… heaven knows).
Not only that: they also throw in echoes of human normality – such as voices of children – and disembodied chorales in those accumulations of grunge. At times we pictured ourselves trapped inside a car stuck in the mud during a hailstorm (in particular, this occurs in the final track “Rooftops/Spires/Valleys”). You know, waiting for the roaring worst to pass. Then, “whew”.
Anyone else here digging Peter Wright’s work? We’re not that far.
Still, the ultimate feel is one of resigned quietness. Lost Trail are detached chroniclers of the failure of rose-colored dreams. If you play this loud enough, they will rip the thin paper of illusion right in your face.