GREETINGS FROM THE HERMITAGE - A Belated Review of Graham Lambkin's "Salmon Run"

Golly, what months. Cripes and chiggers, how long's it been? I've departed the slightly unclean South and am now living alone on an island. Yes, an island. Not one of the mind but one of the earth, the part that broke away from Massachusetts before it bore such a name. The island of the Whaleship Essex where a friend has let me rent and live for next to beans. I suppose it is a bit of an island of the mind as well. Living alone in a 6-room house with two floors, two bathrooms and a porch is for-sure spinning my head. Figuring out where to sit is like a UN meeting gone solo! And everything is musty, as it's a barely-used-but-at-least-winterized summer house, so that knocks out about 1.5 rooms unless I feel like wheazing my way through a Misfits of Science episode. So it's not all bad. Plus I can spit to the beach, which is the closest point in the US to our Euro-neighbors.
Time hasn't eroded my sense of tangents, it would seem. Sheesh. Take it or trash it.
ONWARD CRISPIN GLOVER: About 4 months ago [by my watch], this here disc by the dean of Tart, Transmissions, der Shadow Ring & Elklink Mr. Graham Lambkin, was released by his lonesome. It was got through dubious duping or by tipping your hat to hawkmothsATyahoo and tossing a dozen digital bills. Then, silence. The applause long since faded, one trimmed youth stood up having been preoccupied with books about rats and Meadow Meal tapes to add some awkward claps. Well, here I am.
I never thought I'd have a roommate here, but this CD has taken up a peculiar kind of roost. None of the reviews I've read have yet compared it to or put it in context with a single other recording in human history. Not even a previous Lambkin outing! Well sure there was the Celestiial-meets-Berio of Poem back in the oh two, but not even that rings a bell.
Let's get down to facts and try to work our way out. Sometimes there's collaged classical run through King Tubby's board. Sometimes there's rain and the clatter of chimes. Sometimes the piano's been drinking (not me). Sometimes Lambkin just sits and laughs, living it up with some concertos.

Okay.

Fuck.
We're still at that critical impasse, aren't we? I guess there's nothing doing except let the little genius bastard be. I put it on in the bedroom and sit on the stairs. Let it do it's thing. I feel like I'm eavesdropping anyhoo. More like Lambkin's invited me in.
Most music of the popular sort illustrates the physical world or a world inside. It's rare that music itself becomes a place to occupy. Well, that's what it is, then. Lambkin's made a psycho-physical summer house.
Thanks for inviting me. Sorry I'm late. Best time I've had all year.
Can still be had at your local blog spot.

TEMPORARY LAY-OFFS CHERSE TIIIIIIIIMES