Review by Shannon ReidThe house of truth is built on emotional real-estate for the intention of supporting heavy weight that finds its way into old rocking chairs. Located within North Americana, resides a soothsayer’s re-telling of lived experiences that interrogate the senses. They evoke the smell of wooden wardrobes filled with pressed cotton and conjure up images of bent hats. Within this truth, thresholds embrace entrances and frame exits; and sometimes support the pensive.
Like all settlements, this one has it’s own unique set of sounds that live beyond a wrap-around porch. Inside, ‘Takk Simoloudis’ arouses the spirits of close dancing on creaky floors and warm breath. It brings back to life the sounds of mosquitos hitting metal screens, late summer nights and the dread of harvest.
The call of the last train will summon you to the front door in the end – but your departure will be coldly interrupted, ‘From The Fourth’; after all, how could you pass up witnessing stardust cohesion in an open field? Leif Vollebekk’s composed unity of rustic recollection brings to mind how a rehearsed touch should be felt: with your ears.
