This is long overdue. I mean, looooooonnnnnng
overdue. A solo album by Jim.
The trap kit-so straightforward, so mysterious.
What's inside those things? Air and light-from
which century? Which continent? Which planet?
Depending on how and when you hit them it can
be a vibration sent through a prehistoric breath,
particles of Saturn's atmosphere, the dead, wet
leaves you walked through on the way to the first
day of school. These are the memories of the
drums on this record. Infinite and personal. Edit-
ing each other as they muscle to the front or soft
shoe to the shadow. Cymbals can override/cancel
everything out-wipe your memory clear or make
the memory clearer. Drums are the instrument
where you can feel the presence of the player the
most-the full body-and sense the thoughts of
the player the most. The instrument with the most
choices to be made sends out the most brainwaves.
A bouquet of brainwaves is on this LP.
Jim oversees it all, surveys from the lost place
we're in, the void-the drumless song. We trust.
We trust, Jim. His big green eyes search for the
right tool (mallet, brush, etc), eyes that search you
like you're a song he wants to join, wants to see if
he can add to or understand.
Before humans, drums were playing-these
drums. Genesis was a solo drum piece. After
humans, these drums, this album. Someone-the
last man-is out in a spaceship at the edge of
space. He plays a single chord on a synth to set
time free from its bind and then lets go. This
album sets time free, lets it frolic, lets it graze, lets
it remember.
This is a record of thoughts, memories, surgery.
A deft surgical operation you may not even realize
is happening as it's happening but you're back on
your feet when it's over. Memories refreshed.
Did you really even listen to it?
Bill Callahan, November 2023
