Make a field day of scrunching and wringing clothes in the pond near a closed set of Nebraska. A ring around the steel strings learns as it goes. Split chairs on a splitting porch, littered with horseshoe nails, creak near the wash. Dead wringer.
The closed set I refer to is near the same set one might find, in memory or in dreams, Mother Abigail. In this Nebraska, though, they’re preparing to shove off to Europa.
You see, “Fieldsecretions” is a little more alien than any field of dreams. Its core, a quaint guitar-and-liquid-hooves duet, is split open spatially by stereophonic interruptions: eradicating snare cracks, staggered synth tones, jangling train spurs, and the cavalry crunching on snacks.
• E.M.I.R.S.: http://belchkitchen.tumblr.com
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