Tori Kudo / The Last Song Of My Life


Is this the sound of music melting?
The disassembly of an ensemble?
I call the pine beams and frame prone in the field my 'wooden house'.
As wet clay rotating like a drunk on the wheel is a pot.
The nodes of rhythm slalom in loose correspondence, so time warps and is hard to gauge. How long is it?
It is frequently fantastic, like a dream.
A melodic figure descends again and becomes a theme.
It is being played live to accompany a film. The images are absent. Sometimes, an illustrative surge of silent film piano cuts against the cycled undertow. Falls of brass, accordion, piano, guitar, voice, topple forward into the same confined space. The whole never stops shifting.
It has a group mind and one mind...the liberated kind.
The rare, rare, Tori Kudo kind.
Not many antecedents.
Attending closely is hard but loving it is easy.