Imagine, if you will, a moment in time far later than this one. A moment when the optimistic dreams of this generation have been realised and, with a crushing inevitability, abandoned. Towering pyramids of exotic meta-materials; constructed in avarice and then consigned to decay. Transport tubes cracked, wind whipping through their bowels. A film of dust muting the once garish plastic optimism. This was the future.
Ander’s Minor Clusters makes me think of these things. Its languid guitar reverberating with the twang of fin de siècle Westerns; the late afternoon of eras felt with every looped beat. A beam of yellowing light hitting the once deserted streets of timeless ghost towns; the creak of a wooden door.
This low key instrumentalism but the foreground to the ghostly synthetic wail that slips through the margins of this scene. Out of place amongst the technological graveyard this element prods at the anachronisms and disturbs the unsupervised reclamation of progress. Wraiths amongst the artefacts, their distorted siren calls filtering down onto the blistering earth.