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AZITA, Thomas Comerford, Robbie Hamilton & Soft Ones

AZITA, Thomas Comerford, Robbie Hamilton & Soft Ones

Thu. 02/02 | 9:00PM @ Schubas (map)

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In recent email conversation, Azita described the magnetic pull of song writing. Discussing the long trail of attraction in her writing process, she states: When the song is known to be a song in my awareness, it sort of sits there for a long time drawing the things that belong to it to itself like a magnet. For several years (in this case) I walk around with eight or so magnets in my awareness and they sort of sift my experiences until they each have what they need. Its a poetic metaphor, particularly given the subsequent magnetic force that the songs on her new album, Disturbing The Air, have on the listener. They move, both emotionally and physically, pushing you to feel things that modern song often absents from its parameters. And their force ultimately lies in their seeming disinterest in directing you to a pre-destined response. The air here is thick and full of clues, but no-one can quite find a way through the hazy half-light. After a series of records where Azita has explored what can be done with song from the barbed sonnets of Enantiodromia, through the joie de vivre of Life On The Fly, and the candle-light charms of How Will You? she has now found a new voice with which to speak and sing, a voice that allows more uncertainty into the bargain, which negotiates the untidy complexities of the heart with grace, fully aware of the snags and traps set when humans pull together and then fall apart. With the title song serialized, it takes on the form of a seasonal compass, from the opening lines, where Our fall here is like a spring, and you can trace the discreet but all-important shifts in mood across Disturbing The Air through the tone and delivery of each snippet of the title song itself. Subsequently, the first few songs of the album are of a piece, tracking the development of the fall through to the bones of September and then on into December dismembered / Struck off my leaves / To lay bare only memory / Stripped to my knees.
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