Richard Edge's debut LP, Vespers, plays like a stoned Southern ode to the primitive guitar.
A rushing flood of steel-stringed vibration; pristine; plummeting: higher music not made for a concert hall. Casual like the rubber burning off a pair of shitty sneakers on a cooked, overgrown summer sidewalk. It's Richard's vernacular: deeper than dumb- in fact, incredibly deep- a universe of buoyantly drifting particles settling in a creek bed after some buck-toothed kid in cutoff jeans made that poor-man's ocean skin their landing pad.
Call it folk; call it blues; call it punk. It’s an outsider classical music with inherent twang. It's a window into Richard's world, and it's the latest installment in Crutch of Memory's irreverent catalog.
THIS IS A PHYSICAL PREORDER
Richard Edge's debut LP, Vespers, plays like a stoned Southern ode to the primitive guitar.
A rushing flood of steel-stringed vibration; pristine; plummeting: higher music not made for a concert hall. Casual like the rubber burning off a pair of shitty sneakers on a cooked, overgrown summer sidewalk. It's Richard's vernacular: deeper than dumb- in fact, incredibly deep- a universe of buoyantly drifting particles settling in a creek bed after some buck-toothed kid in cutoff jeans made that poor-man's ocean skin their landing pad.
Call it folk; call it blues; call it punk. It’s an outsider classical music with inherent twang. It's a window into Richard's world, and it's the latest installment in Crutch of Memory's irreverent catalog.
THIS IS A PHYSICAL PREORDER
