Phidippus’ “Prazosin,” the album, is a strange little thing. Not like finding a sock in the dryer that never had a match, but more like finding a tiny, perfectly formed city inside an acorn. It’s all electronic pulses and hums, built by Eric Salazar, with what feels like very specific, and also wonderfully messy, intention. Jeff Riteman and Alice Indiana pop in as guests, like extra sprinkles on already good ice cream, but it’s Salazar’s lonely voyage here, you understand?
The theme is, if you can call it that, navigating through the muck. Personal hardships. Picture yourself trying to assemble a complex Lego set, only to realize all the pieces are slightly… melted. It’s frustration, it’s acceptance, it’s that feeling you get right before the bass drop at a show.
These aren’t your club bangers. They thrum with something quieter, something akin to a lost Morse code message from a parallel universe. Think if the static on an old radio decided to have a meaningful conversation, about what, you’re not quite sure, but you feel it.
This isn’t Beethoven’s 5th Symphony; no grand overtures, just small pockets of noise, put together in patterns. Kinda like a pointillist painting but with sounds, I guess. The whole thing reminds me a bit of those early computer graphics you would see in the 80s. It wasn’t real, but it gave the sensation of something…else.
The real impact is how personal “Prazosin” feels without any sung lyrics or clearly articulated messages. How can an entire human emotional landscape come from blips and bleeps? Maybe it’s the same thing as seeing patterns in clouds. Anyway, there is a real soul within the whirring circuits. What does it mean? Perhaps it’s meant to make you think and feel, the same way an old photograph pulls you back in time, but instead of time you are pulled into someone’s world. What’s more personal than that?
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