"I don't deny my mind is wandering in blue."
— Keijo Virtanen
You can't possibly start a record with a better note.
Karmic scale search being pulled apart by the psychic free saintly spirit floater: Keijo.
Even saying his name out loud makes me think he's on the hills of my shoulder good angel music-is-as-life conscience, and that makes a day more choice-heady flowing.
The man's comfortable playing his way out of any time, in deep total mess-blues, picking all of the worries and pensive reach-inside, picking at what takes us out of ourselves (or turns us into), the junk/gunk highlighted almost-depression before it's formed. We tend to keep that buried down tight and closer to the heart (and metaphorical heart) than we'd like, and he'll grab at that, yank the torch that's out-of-burn and hold it like the catch of the day (all of this is being continuously caught at by his prolific touch) and blow it all alight in flame-thrower peacefulness.
A virtuous down-out ritual brought into the day's sun and warmth, made shining.
Keijo cleans the glass for us. We just have to know how to accept this gift.
Each taped-over guitar or walking-bass throttle or drum-touch (maybe a cymbal too) flips around under new riff-leads bleeding their voices out into the endless puffed ether of the mind/lung combo. Be it throat or the probing and attackless freaking out, it's always the guitars plucking away in perfect casual coating unison. The amplified (in perfect beater tone) strings gurgle and bubble like fish jumping out of water into safer, purified nets of euphoric existence.
An unagitated mind-over-matter blues for the should-never-end: it strangely zaps you out of the enthralled drug-cloud when the supernatural turns invisible and closes shop. And once ended: skips over to another plane.
Keijo is already axing a new set of breezes under his ageless and nomadic near-goof full-soul's tutelage.
It doesn't ever end. And we accept his gift.
Kevin Cahill, Rotational Review
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