On Ｌｏｓｔ Ｊｕｎｇｌｅ, sweat caresses the eyes. A slow moaning horn seeps past the leaves with unease, and the rest unfolds like an orchid through a kaleidoscope. Modulation of time and tone. Split lips. Muddled confusion turning to mild elation, minus any real dramatic swing. Counting on the muggy fog of memory can yield little long-term results, but the nature of dreams is to expand and envelope and gaze, and P A T H S パス aural ecosystem does not disappoint within these aspects in the least.
As most plunderphonics albums go, there’s a fuzzy compliance of familiarity and new ground on Ｌｏｓｔ Ｊｕｎｇｌｅ. Like, “never switch up, but please do a handstand underneath that waterfall” kind of vibes. The mood is unmistakable, even predictable, yet soaks your socks and stokes that feeling of wet feet with a varied, new reality.
Get lost down yonder:
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