Ideologically, if that is any way to apprehend art at all, albums like this can trouble me, such is its leave-it-in-any-setting prettiness, its take-it-anywhere good manners, its clinging to the bosom of folk identity, its auratic distance (even flight) from any form of the ugly deep trough of now, that it must be reactionary. And yet, two tracks in to this 15-track album of music played on the near extinct and mostly fretless Flemish hommel, a long spell is cast that makes me stare at the grain of wood in my desk and fall into that coveted mode of deep listening where every thumb abraded string resonates with a plain and restful truth.
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