Review Summary: You share something with someone else.
I think we’re all–in some way, somehow, all the time, unconsciously or consciously–looking for something.
A sunset, a meal, a sound, a riff, a tree or a bombed train station, a beat, a smile or a teardrop.
A thing that expresses the way we see, hear and feel the world and ourselves.
I think that, if and when one finds it, it reaffirms you. It affirms who you are and the “whole” as you see it, hear it and feel. It can make the world feel more real, tangible, like you can touch it. That thing can give credence to what you’re feeling. It can support the way you see things. It makes you a person. You share something with someone else.
Some people, I think, don't have to look for long. Their sound or sight or taste or feeling find them, quickly and naturally. A TV show, their pillow or the neatly mowed lawn.
I had to look for a while, for too long, through various alleys and detours, from jazz to death metal and everything in between, from anxiety to nihilism and the nothing that is in between.
If you’re reading this, you can probably fill in the gaps in my story just as well as I can.
It sounds hyperbolic and needlessly grandiose when I say that, in Paysage D’Hiver, I found the sound I was looking for, the sound that’s the drone of the world for me, that in the excessive static crunch and drone and shrieks and somber piano and creaking strings I found the sound that I was looking for–but it’s somewhat true.
I don’t feel reaffirmed. The world doesn’t feel any more real, and I’m not sure the way I’m feeling is any more credible or supported. But I do feel more like a person. I share something with someone.
Sad, melancholy and ugly–but also triumphant, overpowering and unapologetic.
That is Paysage D'Hiver.
That is–in some way, somehow, all the time, unconsciously or consciously–life to me.
