I’ve written and deleted and rewritten several drafts of this post. Surprisingly that’s not actually normal: once I have it in my mind to cover a record the words usually find their way to me and posts tend to come together in one sitting, or maybe two with some tweaks. Or they don’t come at all, another unfinished draft left to desiccate in the eternal purgatory of my unposted collection.

The vagaries of creativity’s effusions are of course unsolvable, and unpredictable: a few nights ago on the (very short) walk home from work I was writing things into my phone’s notepad to keep them from slipping away, such was the burst I was having. And then the next few days, nothing, as though I’d been squeezed dry, or the tap turned off by some fickle owner for having drank too greedily from the source.

I know the reason for these rollercoaster excitations like I know the lightning behind the thunderclap, and despite the sudden onset of these feelings I tread carefully, afraid I’m wrong. I could release myself either way, be the cure, but I move with my usual indecision. This same paralysis afflicts me today with a four part cure not just because of bleed-over, but also because its gentle instrumentation and pastoral recordings speak the language of journey that’s scary to face and to reflect about.

In “i” we open to the rustle of fabric, donning coats and trousers perhaps, the creak of a door and the gentle hiss of wind against the mic as the rhythmic crinkle of walking sets the background tone. A pace to set the muscles moving, exercise the heart, steel the mind, and the music in soft piano and accompanying guitar seems to tumble from there. This continues into “ii”, the pace slackening slightly as the resolve softens and lightens, some load being unburdened as a hint of birdsong creeps in. We stop, pause, reflect: this is the moment.

Then in “iii” an abrupt melancholia is faced, the piano moving to strike plaintively as Jason hums softly to his own sad tune. The world seems so suddenly remote now, withdrawn such as it is into its own little bubble of thought that the distant cicadas seem to be blotted out briefly by the magnitude of our own retreat. Of course the instant passes (agonisingly) and they return at the conclusion, a few tentative guitar strokes and bird tweeps signalling the eclipse is over and we can breathe again.

“iv” moves contiguously from there and broadly ends the record on a lighter note, moving with the same idiosyncrasies of “ii”and “i” as suggestive wafts of distant voice and birdsong drift in lazily on the more emphatic piano. Somehow new, somehow the same, we pick ourselves up as we hear the familiar fabric sounds again walking us home in reverse. It is done.

One can rationalise any “no”, so easy and tantalising it is to do nothing and suffer. But it takes courage to swallow the big, bitter pill even if we know it will unshackle us. a four part cure doesn’t sugarcoat, there’s an emptiness here that’s so tempting to succumb to. Yet it marches out into the world to consider and face its problem and only leaves, permits itself to return home, when it’s looked it in the eye for an answer.