Looped in whispered orbits tracing stellar outskirts. The morning ray. The never-cease-to-ending. This is homemade craft, but V. Kristoff won’t lift off in a burning inverted taper, instead cosmos-ruminates, really peering the tipped out materiel that paints the night sky in scatters.
I’ve been in a home-brewed space music frame since April Larson’s There Are No Endings. This subjective Cosmos fits the bill. A delicate drift. Fragile blooms from great expanse. Jungle Gym Records, out of Seattle, who released this tape, call it a “timeless collection of underscores for low-budget space cinema.” Tracks are untitled, as the constellations should be and really are.
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