Photographs Are Not Memories – Victor Bermon
It beckons you back to sleep, lifting you gently with a light tendrils of jazz-tinged electronic folk. And then thing that you can sense more than anything is the perfection in Bermon’s sense of structure: the loping beat, a glitch here, the delicate touch of each instrument as it passes through. Somehow he builds an entire song that exists only in the spaces between atoms. It’s a wall of sound, but entirely ethereal. You step toward it, you reach up to feel its textures, and suddenly realize, without knowing exactly how, you’ve simply come out on the other side. You stare back, slightly bewildered as it dissipates like smoke on the wind.
It’s that time, five minutes after you wake up, when you suddenly realize the dream which seemed indelibly scratched into your memory has dissipated into nothing. All that’s left is a vague recollection: of a stranger with the eyes of a childhood friend, of languid motion, of a swirl of colors.