The cover of Blowing Stones came ripped on top, but it wasn’t until the moment needle hit vinyl that I found out why. The music from Jam Money’s odd pop consortium was desperately pushing outward. Its long journey across the Atlantic made it antsy. It bubbles from note one, ready to unleash a torrent of minimally conceived but blissfully rich tunes into your ears. It rips at the fabric of convention, playing both sides of a music detente: of course we can be coy and quiet, but we also like loud and aggressive. And it’s often a combative affair occurring in the same song (“Gauzy Wing”) where the deliberate pace of isolated contemplation is hurried along with forceful pulls at the nag’s reins. I feel as if this is not new information, even if you’ve never heard Jam Money. The cover tells its story: a large swatch of white canvas, barely touched. But those moments when an impression is made, the brushstrokes bleed into blotches of vivid color; little ideas that are collected as they come. Inspiration literally drawn as it hits. Blowing Stones is more art project than musical composition, which is why it bursts forth from its paper sleeve with such power. It does not care for art as a concept but as an action. So I wonder if that rip — which I will lovingly stare at with each listen — as some sort of psychic tear I caused because it was my anticipation for Blowing Stones guiding it feverishly to my doorstep.
More about: Jam Money
