Husband and wife duo Zachary Corsa and Denny Wilkerson Corsa live in a century-old North Carolina house, a spooky place surrounded by dark woods, emaciated wolves and the disembodied voices of children who have lost their way. When planes crash deep in the trees, the Corsas rush out with microcassette recorders to capture the words of disoriented survivors. Sometimes they leave behind corrugated tins for the victims to open. These may contain food, but are just as likely to contain photographs. Man cannot live on bread alone, and the Corsas are nothing if not generous. Look, here they are in church on Sunday morning – or at least outside church, listening to the self-appointed philosopher who thinks he is a pastor. Wait – wasn’t he in the plane crash? That would explain the rambling.
Well, if the world is falling apart, we may as well play some old instruments. No, that old piano doesn’t need tuning. I’ll play it back for you. See! Oh, honey, listen – there’s one of the children now! How charming – he thinks he’s still alive! I almost didn’t spot him wandering in the lo-fi clouds. Yes, there does seem to be a lot of ambient around, but the forecast is calling for drone. What? You think a ghost smudged your almanac? That’s funny, I thought they preferred fiction.
A Stained August for the Jetcrash may be the closest thing Lost Trail has come to a sustained concept album. The sermon is followed by the child, the cockpit, the crash, the numbers, the choir, the static, the silence. The final track addresses “eternal reality” clouded by doubt. This loose narrative may not have been planned, but is easy to intuit. Former releases have fallen into the trap of multiple themes, but this one gets it right. The next step may be for the couple to dig into the back catalog for reshuffling and repackaging. To collect all the winter tracks in one place, or the supernatural tracks, or the “suburban sprawl” tracks, would yield a clearer focus. (Richard Allen)
a closer listen 