Thomas Bush

Before history will be made by machines, British musician Thomas Bush sends a new humane record. DIY chamber music, for the Kashual, no Plastik. Ten curious arrangements, looking for new horizons, those hiding behind the previous. They are short, they are epic. A great beautiful mess, in which Thomas Bush occasionally sings and speaks in veiled pitch. On hallucinated rhythms. Along the guitar, that’s everywhere. As chord. As melody. As sound. As a sliding desert stoner. Droning, zoning. Keeping the campfire glow. Broken folk with stretched tones on electric bones. Minimal melodies, maximum wonder. Sacral shoeless shoegaze haze. Some say, there are wavering shadows of Lorren Connors airs, heavy mary chained. A guitar mourns; a piano note dances alone. Call it a big rendezvous with destiny. “Rejoining” might tell you something new about yourself. Or manufacture fresh dreams. You can cry to it. Fall for it. Or you just don’t listen….