Take a lifetime's worth of skies - the ones that you vividly remember and the ones that have been rubbed back into a fogged disregard - and lie them out, end-to-end and, well, they will stretch very obviously as far as the eye can see, in redundancy. These canvases of colors and of cloudy hieroglyphics, of nothingness and preciousness are what has been held over our heads and what has given us such a pretty ceiling to gaze upon. We tend to pay them less of a mind than we might otherwise, because of our needy preoccupations and our relative blindness. We are, after all, just men and women relying almost exclusively on our hindsight to see anything and that feature has never had all of the bugs cleared out of it. These skies seem to just hang there, breathing in and out, but slowly and with hesitation. We like to think that Martin Dosh pays mind to these skies and what they do with themselves, how they get around, when they get around. He knows their tendencies and he tracks them obsessively with his music. Together usually with the incredible talents of Michael Lewis, Dosh creates the kind of soundscape that lights a fire under the late afternoon and evening skies (when things start to get good and interesting) and lets them travel. The skies rev up and they begin to pick up speed, turning the progression into an acceleration of temperature and spectacle.
Playing with sonic colors and their different heats and cooling's, Dosh honors some kind of human effervescence that is all-powerful and just a matter of birth. It can be suppressed or it can be worn away by circumstance, stolen out from underneath of you, but one should believe that it can return again in listening to any Dosh album full of its percussive and dreamy rainbows and full-bodied grace. It's the shade of a glorious life and it's akin to taking a bite of the best pie that's ever come out of an oven - a pie that's able to be savored in an incomparable fashion, with relish and with renewed vows to oneself to either cheer up or love everything harder. As the music burns by us - a constant motion, a train of thought and a passionate stripe - it leaves a trail that hangs illuminated for a spell and remains visible even as we shut our eyes to it. It's still a drinkable feeling and it flickers out like a breeze, but not before the time is appropriate. We tend to listen and wish for the feeling to be milked for all its worth. The preference is for the heavens to open up and shed something of itself downward, a speck or two of dust that can be stirred into our drinks and spare us our worries for a moment or two - something that could turn our sighs into exhilarated gasps and Martin Dosh gives some of this to us and he asks for nothing in return.