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 Contrary to LA’s potent reservoir of sound, at weekend shows I often find myself amidst only dead air. Like a gust of wind some bands are easily forgotten. The amiable experience dissipates as I exit the venue’s threshold. This is not that night.

Tonight I am born and I am slaughtered. Tonight these feet sink into the floor. Primordial hums nourish the descent. I am affected. Ezra Buchla aggravates every dull gray particle inside my body. He paints them in vibrant hues of chimerical viola beauty. Each thrust of the bow gently slices my aegis garmentry into a fabric-y puddle at my ankles. The flesh barely clamoring to my bones, I am completely vulnerable. The spirited particles dance in celestial patterns. All of the rusted, calcified, bored and monotonous pieces of me are now in motion. 

The feminine presence to his right is Claire Cronin. She caresses her guitar in slow, story-telling strokes. Her words flow at the pace of suspenseful grace. It is difficult to illustrate a fascination beyond my own comprehension. The energy invading my core comes of a mythical nature, the one I learned about in grade school. It’s a nice story, but it doesn’t exist. Such an epiphany is not possible at a sordid weekend show. A dusty floor, tallboys and bottle caps hardly arouse such ethereal revelations…well, not genuine ones anyway.

In essence, the conclusion of this duo’s set is as though waking from life’s most prophetic dream before its culmination.