The poetic mystery of Justin Hardison’s ghostly pastoralism flowers in the image of the sonorine, the talking postcard that allowed one to record a personal message onto disc. The music exudes an interest in the power and timelessness of the drone, but it develops on a personal plane, and is thus rendered tempermentally more volatile and unpredictable than such a title might suggest.
The controlled and contingent elements of Hardison’s pieces crush together like a coming storm. There is something elemental about the spurious assemblage of nebulous wafts, caked with firy static, and underpinned by coldly dramatic coda’s of piano strikes that set the teeth on edge. Computer processing plays in the overtones, bending and thickening things into a narcotised ambience. Pieces return to this state time and again (too much, no doubt), but no one visit is overly long. The works move effectively to places microscopic in their detail; others vast and expansive in their wonder, and there is even a fair amount of congenial and scrappy intermingling between the two.
Another key element is the suggestive and beautifully mysterious nature of the found sounds which spill through these tracks. Men and women converse, birds chirp, and babies cry, all lending the proceedings a clear narrative dimension that is well laid-out, but with enough room for interpretation built in. In all of these sound moments, one senses the spirit of curiosity, excitement, and discovery that animated its creator.
Max Schaefer
