Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
It's just about autumn here, though it's been raining an awful lot. The drops have been pelting the already weakening, reddening leaves on our trees, pushing them, bullying them from their woody umbilical cords with their wet slaps and tickles. Suddenly the lawn has taken on a patchwork look that incorporates all of the colors of the Spanish and Mexican flags. These rains are all-day affairs, impregnating our streams and then making them hemorrhage with chocolate water and an attitude. They keep a gray face, the days do, and they make you think about the structural commitment of your basement walls and whether or not they're choosing to be faithful and sound. Brooklyn, N.Y., band Callers may as well be associated with these sorts of soakers, giving their blessing to the dampened and dampening ambiance. At the feet of lead singer Sara Lucas should be an impressive mound of pennies for her thoughts, sticky with rainwater and giving off a strong scent of greening copper. She's an enchanting singer, with a voice and a process of melody that is like a fur coat or a pile of dry logs taking slowly and lovingly to the fire given to it by a match, with no one around to see or hear it and no one around to steal any of its warmth, just to wave and cook in complete silence until it existed no more. Lucas runs her heartbroken thoughts down the windows to the outside, streaking like big, fat crocodile tears. They run and jag down the glass, making their way slowly to the pane below where they'll bundle themselves up into a small pool before getting so big that they'll tumble over the edge and down to the ground to make something grow. The album, "Fortune," that the band put out on the Austin label Western Vinyl, is a lovely collection of songs that pulsate with the jilted company of those who know just what it's like to be soaked to the bone and stunned by the way that things are going in this love life, in this regular old life. It's not a sad and depressed quandary, just one that will keep people praying for slight changes that would make all the difference needed to clear out some of the gray sludge and to dry up sorrow. Lucas sings in the fantastically lovely "Rone," "It tricks my senses," and it's such a notable line as there's a true sense that throughout the emotional dilemmas of the record, there is at least one person caught off-guard by how they all played out, that the trustworthy helpers in the taste, sight, sound, smell and touch departments let them down. Things shouldn't be so bad, things shouldn't be so hard or slow. But they are and Lucas, with her Callers, are working through these pains with their own kind of gray.
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