Gradually, the most unassuming sonic fragments become the subjects of prolonged and profound debate. The passing sentiments of a wandering guitar meet the enthusiastic concurrence of a squawking saxophone which, in turn, tumbles into an angry spat with electronics on the basis of a few misheard remarks. Tiny morsels of improvisatory incident become the basis of clamorous 10-minute soundscapes, like rolling dice to determine the dimensions of architectural blueprints; solitary neuron flashes rendered in epic sculpture.
Unless both musicians allowed themselves to be lead by blind belief, Old Postcards would have failed. “God Save The Sax” starts with a rickety blues riff, re-asserting itself until it hijacks every limb and reflex, carrying the musicians through swoops of cymbal wash, hand clap and demented woodwind preach, like Captain Beefheart loudly selling his body and mind to the lord above. The duo place theatrical reverie upon the tentative lurches of free will. Suddenly, a cautious stutter is a mantra to be printed upon panoramic banners and chanted by parties of thousands or more. And these statements must fight to avoid drowning inside their own cavernous reverb, fending off the cut-paste sampling that attacks the present tense like a locust horde. The duo are immune to distraction. Stubbornly, they reject alternate streams of thought once a convincing argument reveals itself. Old Postcards swings open and then promptly, resolutely, slams shut.