It feels like there’s a lot of lost nights compressed together on Live From a Shark Cage. It’s hard to believe this came out almost a decade ago; ten years holding – on average – 3,650 evenings.
Some might dare call this post-rock, but it’s mostly lonely and soft. Maybe that’s what people meant back then; I can’t remember anymore how all that rattling about who went where used to go to. Probably all fell into the same black hole that sucked up those 3,650 evenings.
(Bitch and moan, bitch and moan.)
Has the same fuzzy, endless atmosphere of earlier Six Organs of Admittance. Echos and tender bits of guitars glued together, that sort of thing. Not so much the Buddhism and gongs, though. Thankfully, there’s no singing; no words to get all over this pretty patchwork. I’ll follow suit.
Perhaps sometime later this month I’ll see what else Pajo has been up to. I’m almost afraid to find out, because Live From a Shark Cage is a nearly flawless album, and it’s hard for someone you don’t know to live up to your expectations.