A horrible hack

The Books

The Lemon Of Pink

Year Released: 2004
Format: LP
Label: Tomlab
Reviewed by Hari Ashurst on Jun 13, 2007
Iím at an airport, I think. My head hurts and things keep happening again and again. But then that thing will disappear giving way for something else, like a volley of sounds marooned on a headphone island desperately trying to escape but instead crashing into each ear. Wait, thereís a woman speaking some unknown accent in my ears. Trumpet and violin and foreign noises, a man just coughed. Where am I?

Banjo, have thou come to save me? No donít go, come back. Oh there you are. This is nice, thereís that violin again. Some vocals ďWe went through hell, all is well that ends well, well, well, wellĒ, and then thereís that banjo again. What is this? Is this electronica? Is this folk? It sounds like a lost and almost forgotten mixtape that somebody took to with a pencil. A hasty screwing of usable tape reel born from frustration. Perhaps we were frustrated because it got recorded over for the hundredth time. You just lost what you thought you would always have here. Itís gone, but you can still hear it bleeding through parts of some of the tracks. Itís gone, but somebodyís recorded a banjo over it. A thousand best bits of a mixtape strewn across this fragile disk.

There is that particular track that means the world to me. Even though I have no idea what they are singing or even what language Iím dealing with, it seems to be justly applicable to my current condition Ė whatever that may be.

This transports you to a different universe. A universe of purgatory where everything hangs adrift and enveloped around your weightless body. This is a different kind of sound and itís a lifetime of moments packed into 37 minutes and 29 seconds. There is laughter, there is hopelessness, there is happiness and there is joy. As you try to pick apart the detail of what just happened you start to remember passages and verses that have long since passed. You put it on repeat and something starts to grow from behind a bazillion other ornamental sounds. It becomes your favourite sound, briefly.

Treat this not as a record. Not even as your favourite record, but as a scrapbook. Of lost memories and lost emotions you canít quite remember. The wireless is broken and it doesnít need fixing.

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