In The Blind
Fletcher Holloway’s third album In The blind shatters the prior nascent glass-ceiling. The previously
cautious producer / musician is exploring the casbah rhapsodies in some of the bigger performance
idols in the rock oeuvre (greats like Queens Of The Stone Age, 80s Thrash Rock Queen and then too
the Nordic folk and Indie Blues underlaying), the point-of-sale difference here is he’s a one man show
with all the creative thought process of a city firm.
His ease with brief singing guitar stabs and synth work pertains to the restraint he’s tussling with, the
mildly psychedelic heaviness in Track 2’s Silver Bullet produces a dead feeling, the graveyard of this
teetotaller soil bed’s infertility and deathly tomb’s cold stone, which metastasises its toxins in the
singing. Simple cadence and simple utterances in vocals, encircled with the melodious fuzz and
falsetto operatics, leaves the choice key of E—something Holloway takes great heed towards—as
never being expressed as thickly in prior releases. It weaves a sarcophagus and bandage outfit, an
almost anything but this room, with these candles and this lover; the vampiric werewolf inside is
difficult to tame even with his lover’s intimations.
This writer’s favourite track is Something Down The Way, the lackadaisically formed importance of
their being something or other, embedded in the like monotonous pits of idle work—has me thinking
of my time spent in factory floors with rote machinelike production of the individuals’ up the packing
line, dreaming of yonder enticements, never coming. A rather than empty space one finds the music in
these many catechisms and cavities in this society and technology age.
The question of such elementary structures across the albums many tracks is answered in this way:
that the form of one’s listening is to be engulfed by the dead air’s dance, the nocturnal creatures and
beasts tempting the voyaging artist and thus listening audience from their safety zones and personal
spaces. The inherent design is it begs relistening with a drink in hand; the genius of many of songs is
ensconced by the lothario of music seduction into the inebriated and flatness, the idle licks and hooks
of lyrics (in the Blind, lost my mind_ seem to deify the temptation of intoxications in the battlezones.)
In some form of another, Fletcher Holloway has established a pretty neat collection of songs for
company in those rather than happy go lucky times.
In The Blind