If you sleep in an oyster long enough, you become a pearl. And this is exactly what happened to Lisa Busby, who is “not the same woman.” But fear not! Shards of the old Lisa remain. She’s still calcium carbonate under all that shimmer. We never forget our roots.
Long-time readers already know the reference. Sleeps in Oysters was one of our favorite musical duos of the last decade. Don’t you worry, John fans ~ he’s swimming languorously in The Lumen Lake, while Lisa’s been floating on the good ship Rutger Hauser. She is not an excessive girl. This is how we know they still get along. Now that summer’s over, Lisa’s been hanging out in bakeries and mortuaries, recording beautifully non-linear music. No A-A-B-A here. More like X-Z-Q-Q. Everybody knows those are the coolest letters.
By virtue of her music, Lisa scores a non-linear review. Follow this sentence fragment across the zeroes and ones. Oh no, it’s getting away! It’s snaking through the grass, into the woods! Step on it! Oh no, now it’s just a few words. Maybe we should not have done that. And see, there’s just a little snippet of sound stuck to our shoe, a little static that won’t rub off, an old film reel loop, and now we smell like a movie. And here comes the momma static cloud, looking for her baby, chasing that old movie scent, and we’re trying to explain, but we’re holding it near, like a hollow blown egg, and we’re in big trouble now, because you should never mess with a static cloud, it drowns out all sense and sight and sound, and if only we hadn’t gone chasing that sentence, if only we hadn’t worn shoes, if only we had jumped in a river to disguise our scent, we wouldn’t be here now, lost in briars and bells. And there goes the music, dissolving, disappearing, gallumphing through the trees, leaving us deaf and dumb, stumbling and stunned, speaking in sentence fragments, which is what got us here in the first place. We have become the loop.
But in the end, mercy. Sunshine, sunshine, the album’s last words. Like Paul in the house of Judas, our sight has been restored, and the colors dance before us in riso images, folding and unfolding like bedsheets in the wind. (Richard Allen)