I once spent a dismally depressed night chain-smoking and driving the same six or so suburban blocks. My chosen soundtrack for this aimless venture was a half-volume radio tuned to an empty station. Static, with the occasional intrusion of near-by wavelengths seemed to be the best fit for that slouched drive through dark neighborhoods. The empty hissing somehow blunted my uncomfortably pointed thoughts. How I wish I had this album then. Mixing that static with a hopeful, orchestral drone and sound clips full of oblique meaning would have buoyed my spirit in the dim aquamarine light of my car stereo. Just the sense of intelligence behind shaped static and drone is a comfort; human contact by proxy, which is all I could have taken at that moment. Not that those are memories I particularly want to relive, but I’m glad Lost Trail can conjure them up; viewed several years removed it’s part of my past I wish had been better considered in the moment. The power of this kind of fragile, humming ambient sound is that it allows that window for nostalgia and, if applied properly, maybe the opportunity to reflect and learn.
