Review Summary: My guitar is covered in moss and twigs and now I’m late for work
Rolling dew-doused meadows and sun-soaked streams are the passages of
11:11, and they’re really quite pretty. Of the many country-ish emo-ish indie-mostly excursions Evan and co have set out on, their latest foray into the thicket may well be their most patient and under-dramatic to date. Organic and breathable are its tunes, blooming in real time with warm swirling arpeggios (
Iodine) and the spindly swaying of oak and pine (
Habitat). They watch the clouds roll in, compositionally loose and indifferent, vibrant and alive in their passivity, punctuated (however) by moments of movement.
Alaska cracks open the sky with streaks of floral lightning, catch(ing)(y) like fire, alike the campfire singalong of
So What, all crackling wood and silent smoke trails. It’s just so moreishly green and kind and reassuring and good as it bursts and blossoms and sings and soars,
fuck. Actually, it’s rather uneventful, which, honestly, I rather enjoy. I like camping and sleeping and not doing things and, in such endeavours,
11:11 supports me unquestioningly: a companion to aimless woodland walks and petting strangers’ dogs; to Sunday morning coffee and excess pancake batter; to finding peace between the ceaseless mundane tragedy of the everyday and trying not to cry in public. And/or, by way of a not-quite-so-glum concluding sentiment: these are some v. wholesome songs and I hope that you are well.
