The Folded Palm

It was the fourth beer, the third pill, or the fourth cup of coffee. Or may be it was their synthesis instead. Circumstances cannot be easily disregarded either. There was one body buried, one broken heart, and three long holidays endured drunk, drugged, and dejected. It was madness and it was in this state that Frog Eyes finally found their place within me.
The process began months prior. The name was known but their identity had yet to be established. A new record was released and I decided the time had come to make my self familiar.
Strikingly anomalous, The Folded Palm was initially unnerving. Unlike any contemporary or conventional sound, I struggled to distinguish analogies. Eventually I settled upon a queer and unlikely combination of Bowie, Xiu Xiu, and The Decemberists. Intriguing as this amalgamation was, it still had yet to lay claim to me. Still, this strident singularity was enough to keep me coming back.
Then, amidst the heartache and chemical consumption of these past few months, it slowly slipped down deep inside me. This is music for mania and until that mindset took hold these songs had no hold on me.
Then with the bottle bent back to chase the pill taste, the chaotic arrangements were suddenly all-too-well-suited to the fragmented feelings inside me. Shatters of self struggled up against the downpour of distress just as the spastic strumming of guitar and whispering shrieks rose above the lurching plod of a rhythm section gone wrong. The desperate delivery betrayed both a tortured understanding of an inevitable demise and an unwilling acceptance of that untimely end. Frog Eyes seemed as I was: alone, shaking, afraid, and decidedly defeated.
Moving past that, an enigmatic attraction remains. The unusual nature of this appeal is that it emerges independent of conventional hooks. There are no memorable choruses and the verses border on bizarre. Some moments stand out, but they do so almost entirely isolated from their context. Instead there is a totality yielding a series of sensations ranging from joyful madness to delirious desperation.
Independent and entirely idiosyncratic, The Folded Palm proves itself well worth the attention and effort invested into it. Seething with unpleasantness, it seeks out a secluded segment of the psyche where the darkest days loom largest.

Descend down deep with me into "Ice On The Trail"

Buy it right now because there isn't much time left