Native Australian turned Berlin fixture Tornado Wallace has created an album that’s splicing the dancefloor’s allure with sleepy shades of dub and experimental disco flashbacks. The album has a distinctly refined slink that comes on like a narcotic cloak, melting his sounds together into a pool of heightened reality half-memories. The short, but effective, Lonely Planet, has the feeling of dipping the listener into a soundtrack wishing well of ’80s nights and smudged streetlight hues, alternating feelings of lucid calm and an overwhelming depersonalization that feels as if you’ve slipped off of the tracks of existence.
Maybe Lonely Planet is just your way of dealing with the current events spiral, a step back out of the anxiety climax of the swirling loop of information, conjured up by your mind from the detritus of too many late nights asleep in front of the TV. Its entirely possible that the music just began playing on its own. No cause for alarm. Just lay back into it and watch this horrible year of our lord, 2017, unfold its widescreen horror from the safety of neon lit car windows thrumming from the full body high of distance. But alas, that’s not so, is it? When Lonely Planet simmers to a stop, you’ll still be you and the world will still be waiting, but at least it felt right for the moment.
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