Housecraft bossman Jeff Astin dishes up precisely fourteen interlaced mazes of weird sure to be on repeat inside your head for the foreseeable future. On the porch or by the pool, this one is for you. It’s All Point Blank.The dice have already been rolled. Don’t question it. Just press play.
Limited edition of 100 cassettes w/ download code
Design/ Layout by Paul Browning
Pro-imprinted and pro-duplicated
We’ve mentioned the mendocino collective’s late night jams, searing a line through the bluegrass back porch scenes north of town.
But across town some different vibes are stewing. Literally nestled among and almost getting covered over by fancy new arts & crafts houses is the DAR house; a loud yet quiet amalgamation of folks.
A place I’ve visited, yet have no scope of the whole picture, the whole scene. I dont think there is a scene but a loosely associated cast coming together as time and fate dictates. Some pretty amazing sounds have been coming out of this house & every time i think I know every musician or label that is rooted here another person pops out of a back room to hand me some tapes. There’s probably a dozen or more monikers operating out of the DAR house, with house shows and impromptu jams on random days of the week. And there’s the sense that under what appears as a total chaotic facade there is some serious collected focus going on as these dudes lay down some heavy heavy sounds.
Thankfully there’s started to be some releases coming out that document some of what goes down. We’ve documented a few already via tapes by Bush Lights, I am just a pupil, Andy Loebs, Chad Roulette.
This batch from Cds tapes? probably is the best shot so far in letting some of the energy of this house see the light of day.
Raw, straight sounds, thick journeys that at times are nostalgic but also here & now, a fruitful path to the next zone.
Pablo’s Pueblos is Jeffrey Astin, Brian Kinkade, Devin Lecroy. Dogs Dreaming is Josh Clark & Andy Loeb.
I awoke to a summer evening already tinged with the sad gold of swiftly approaching autumn. Every bird in the towering oaks was whispering “Come see, come see.” They led me in escort to an unfamiliar neighborhood, past the boarded-up mansions, past the crumbling mills, past the train cars sitting slumped and rusted on un-used sidings. The air shifted, the world tilted imperceptibly on its axis, and all grew hushed and chilled. At the wooded void of a dead-end street at dusk, I glanced in my rearview to find the backseat of my little car teeming with spirits, pure refractions of light and dark jostling for the seatbelts. What else could I do but bring them home, to the shadowy reaches and unmapped hollows of our own halls? With their consent, I recorded their stories on tape, though their ephemeral nature distorts and damages all attempts to capture their voices. Listen close. This is the music we’ve made while reaching across the threshold and clasping hands. – Lost Trail
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