I live in a nameless town /
No need to wander around
She had once told him she saw dark amorphous creatures crawling in at the edges of the room. Her eyes had darted to and fro, a surreal gloss covering her pupils — her neck muscles had tensed skittishly in response to unknown stimuli. He had called to her multiple times, trying to awaken her from whatever state she was slipping into. He had wondered, from an out of body perspective, if the creatures were only inches away from engulfing him as well. Ultimately, that had been foolish thinking. He knew he’d never be able to fathom the depths to which this illusion interlaced with her past, the mind and senses. And for that, he should have been thankful.
And there’s only the two of us /
In a black out
Memory and Time aren’t very reliable acquaintances. If you’ve ever visited the hazy silver screen of your own mind, then you know that memories fade with time — where they were once emotionally potent, inevitably, they start to feel like a teaspoon dose of the original. And don’t get me started on the visual component. Of course certain things never seem to fade and every time we see an old photograph we’re rewarded with a firing of synapses we weren’t quite expecting (I really just need to get myself a Pensieve).
“In a Black Out” offers the same goose bump sensation such synapses might. Hamilton Leithauser is a passionate force to be reckoned with as Rostam’s acoustic plucks and ethereal harmonies converge into a moonless crescendo of a stroll through a desolate old western town. In fact, the entire album has a wonderfully timeless quality to it. Give I Had a Dream That You Were Mine a listen if you haven’t already.