SONDHEIM, ALAN, HELENA ESPVALL & AZURE CARTER - Cauldron

The animists of Mari El aren't the last pagans, not by a long shot. Cauldron is on the job, too, working the hot-stick on Ley lines from Giant Despair to Kingdom Come, with a backpack full of old tube equipment and spools of magnetic tape. Cauldron spins secret messages encoded in lace and tosses the achillea millefolium to see where to go next. Cauldron wants to remind you that all you see is not all there is. The margins of things are crawling, if you know how to look: ancient spirits, saints, faeries, fractal elves, jeweled self-dribbling basketballs, etc. etc. etc. The trick is to find your way back to an unmediated life. So take Cauldron's hand. Ignore the fire-exit signs warning you that an alarm will sound. It won't. Push the door open. Stumble into brighter light of the untended back lot behind our shared reality where weeds push stark flowers through cracks in the cement once you get out there everything is so quiet, all you hear is the breezes-s-s-s, butterflies and blue lizards flit and skitter amid the rubble of forgotten thoughts. How wonderful that you're here! they say. You come so rarely! Were so delighted to see you! Cauldron deals out a three of cups: Alan Sondheim, a pioneer of mystical ear-tweak and sci-fi sonic ritual sound, chamber-improv gypsy cellist Helena Espvall, and eco-trance singer Azure Carter thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up nine. Channeling the ghosts of Opal Whiteley and Lou Harrison, Cauldron conjures the scratch and shush of the Big Bang out of wood, wind and cat-gut. Whenever you listen to it, this album is always over too soon, just like life. Fire Museum and Tequila Sunrise Records deal out a two of pentacles: not to get all Yankee Candle here, but we only made 250 of these, so grab one before they melt away like chemtrails in the sunset sky. - Fred Astarte, Tequila Sunrise.