Flowers For L.P. is the audio equivalent of an image seen through an unfocussed lens; shapes neither end nor begin, and movement is only identifiable through organic quivers and shifts occurring within big blocks of colour, implying a life and drama trapped beyond the blur of blindness. At times it feels like a brass band melting into a golden pool, or a magma stream running consuming a village, or the incessant, clouding soundtrack to a psychopath’s chilling inner monologue. It is a storm for the scared and disorientated; a prison of eternal transit; a stranger whose shifting silhouette evades the embrace of acquaintance and familiarity over time.
Nothing about the piece is explicit. It’s a labyrinthine tunnel of misdirection, with each note platted into its dissonant other, and new textures sliding in to replace those that dim, creating a blanket of noise that self-rejuvenates and never decays. It is thus shapeless and devoid of destination, tilting and drifting with an unnerving lack of purpose. Never once does a particular instrument present itself in clear view – there are hints toward cymbals, trumpets, field recordings and synthesisers, yet not one exists as any more than an implicating shadow rendered crooked on the uneven cave wall on which it is broadcast. The music ends after 42 minutes, yet I’m left with a sensation that clings to the inside of my stomach; a dark and sinister psychological weight of unresolve and eerie, supernatural haunts.