A blistering swelter of torn speakers flapping like a gang of birds sourced open by digital distortion, cavernous reverb and national park and mountain-like expanse is the beauty, and it’s sand-covered, running down as rubble.
Loner expression first, landscape collection second.
Part the winds while abandoned adobe apparitions of guitar swagger and plectrum-spiked punch create perfect humbled deserted isolationist twang. Hitchhiker good-and-bad on the worth-more.
Welcoming the ghostly Peter Kris to the library’s slowly growing high-ladder stack, where a collection of his blown-out crisp-around-the-edges solo guitar masterworks slipped through the walls into my living room and good headphones and I can’t be more psyched (psych is too easy a descriptor for this radicalism).
When he unbands from the German Army underground lava-flow of productivity, under all kinds of different names, mailing address another possible mirage, the sun gets hottest and those frizzled eyes get shut under the weight of the world.
Say, a natural feeling or aura of being outside, possibly at night when the moon is spying, with possible drug intake, when persona’s intact, we get dismantled electrical six-string hallucinations and player-heavy crescendo in constant minimalist poise and noise.
Drive ahead and bury the yellowed demarcations underneath the wheels, or jump out, not get in, walk alone, go back, turn around, walk in circles… but stay up, following something.
A wall of noise: too easy, acid sun melt: too easy, bad dream decay: getting closer, but it’s all of these things and more: somehow futuristic angular show-how and old-timer highway southern picking. Deadly combo. And one-of-a-kinder.
Very stoked to release PML CDR 04, Jacumba by Peter Kris, and I thank the ghost.
CD-R packages burned and printed here at home in a small run of 27 copies. Prints included in the envelope are original Peter Kris photographs in black-and-white on heavy card stock.
From the both of us, we hope you dig it and can pass it on.
Peace and more to come,