There’s only about a centimeter of space between the left and right reels of Blue Eleven, which works out to well over two hours of psychedelic drones you can find as this one passes through you. So grab the nearest bottle of cough syrup and settle in for a scenic and serene journey, dotted with swirls of colorful tones, twisting zaps and humbling refrains. Distant storms of electricity light up the void as your bodily vessel drifts along through what I can only assume is the deepest reaches of the final frontier. A couple of strange jolts of silence mark chapters of what feels like could be an extended live set, the Plains Druid a jockey not of discs but rather sampled sweeps of synth and guitar while minimal beats trot gingerly beneath. Elsewhere, high pitches blink to life and bend themselves around pillars of soft noise, all while your eyelids gradually get heavier, and heavier, and heavier. It reminds you of how the microscopic is in actuality something else entirely myriad and expansive, or how a ten minute nap can feel like forever from within a different perspective, like a dream for example… it’s all just a matter of relativity. Blue Eleven could be two hours long or two days, or two minutes, and it’d still be exactly the same. Just as time is on a different axis than the X, Y, and Z’s your material being is used to, so too does Plains Druid roam on a different dimensional plane.
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