Pitchfork

I am in the musty storage bow of a sailless schooner on the murky waters of the river Styx. This is the boat that carries indie folk stars to the Other Side. The Grim Reaper smells like moth balls and points a medicarpal to a rotting piano. I press my cheek against the cobwebbed piano lid. A crackling tape loop echoes from deep within. I jerk my head up with fear and curiosity. The Reaper gestures for me to continue listening. "Lisa Germano," he growls in a voice like tearing sandpaper. "You like."

Haunting sounds caress my ears. My face goes numb and cold. The sounds emitting from inside the piano mimic organ-grinder trip-hop from the streets of Edgar Allan Poe's Baltimore. Backwards accordion loops, exotic drums from the edges of the Queen's Empire, the ghost of Liz Phair's guitar, and chiming pianos from under the floorboards fade in and out of a seashell's pseudo-ocean. The music is moody and intoxicating. Take an absinthe into the study and put Slide on the Victrola. Over a muted piano line I hear Lisa weeping the lyrics to "Wood Floors". A tear wells up in the carved eye of a wood statuette with flaking, faded paint on the point of the piano. My spine shivers.

I wake up with drool on my chin and headphones digging into temple. Thankfully there is no Grim Reaper. Germano's Slide is undeniably a headphone album and a masterwork of spooky production. Lisa is consistently beautiful without being overly poppy-- unless you take "poppy" to mean the mind-chilling ether of Oz's poppy field. Slide creeps deep into your bones and is an undead journey filled with grace and emotion.