Our Endless Numbered Days
This is a selection of intimate and, at first, simple sounding songs, folk ballads whispered in your ear. The oxymoronic implications of the title suggest that although things are both infinite and capable of being measured, the end is certain. If I leave before you, you’ll end up spreading ashes around the yard. Elsewhere, Poppa dies with a smile as wide as a ringing bell, white boys recite that God is good, farm houses burn down, smoke becomes a prayer in our mouths, and, when we’re lovers at last, there’ll be teeth in the grass. Equal parts Southern Gothic, bits of considered meditation and barely remembered fever dream, these song-poems flirt with, but stop short of, cliché and are greatly enhanced by eerily lyrical minimal accompaniment: finger-picked guitar, occasional slide and banjo.