Brandon Hurtado ~ Buried In Rain

bhQuiet, bleary vocals are ushered into a dark room on Buried In Rain. Tears drop from sad, strummed chords. They’re pale echoes of what they once were, drowning in a deluge of reverb. The music’s too tired to even yawn.

This is the sound of the blues, only without the pentatonic scale and a handful of dominant seventh chords. It has been replaced with a lasting shade of grey and an unrequited longing.

It gets into the bones.

While some are celebrating, others are distraught. Buried In Rain is very much in the hands of the latter – totally defeated.

Abject misery.

People may try to look away or avoid staring into its face, but it walks the streets, too…and a lot more people are afflicted with it these days. “Choking” and “Drag the Lake” are dramatic but necessary.

There is no hope here, but despite that the music is beautiful…yes, it is. It’s a sedative. Anesthetic.

This is defeat as seen through the eyes of music herself. The vocals sigh, always indeterminate and just out of reach, muted as if closed off, either reluctant to say the words out loud or taking the form of a whispered prayer when all else seems lost. Self-confidence can sometimes drain away during those difficulties, and self-doubt can replace it. A prayerful and desperate tone struggles to remember to hang on to the better things in life. For now, it has to contend with its drudgery. Its lo-fi sound pushes it through a series of dim and claustrophobic pipes, adding to a mind constricted by society.

June is a rainy month here; it’s barely-there, completely swamped in the heavy thunder and lightning of a Floridian storm. But these are also identifiable and relevant feelings: feelings of alienation, loneliness and social anxieties, made known via the drifting chords and the rainy moods; Saturday afternoons with no texts or calls to light up your cell phone. Days when rain stopped play.

After the storm, a black rainbow hangs, crucified, below clouds. Even the colours have been sent into exile. The rain-washed streets can’t cope. The tones leak out and the storm drains splutter out the water. We’re back to choking again. “Vines For Eyes” wants to be covered up. It says, cover me, bury me. Don’t look. (James Catchpole)

 

Available here

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