Talkdemonic slows down the physical properties of stressfulness that are inherent in most every human body - the operations decrease their heart rates and allow the person who they belong to an opportunity to just let the elements strike them, whapping them friendly in the face and giving a good burn to the cheeks and a playful tussle to the crop of hair. The highly effective and effected instrumentals that Kevin O'Connor and Lisa Molinaro stir up are the syrupy soundtrack for a dense rumination, for a walk through a desolate piece of wilderness where the only sounds are the crunching of one's own feet trodding over the fallen branches and leaves and the rare critter scampering away for a hiding place.
It's music for people who find themselves in the state of needing peace and quiet more than nourishment or love and shelter. It's as if love has left town - just up and deserted ship - and there's a chance that the only talk that's going to be done between the town and love is going to be through a mysterious mediator like smoke signals or wistful stalking tracks in the snows outside a home that could be construed as any number of messages. The music is a wonderfully drawn out reminder that simplicity and complication can revel in each other and that often when there's enough on someone's mind they'll seek out some kind of tranquil environment to share it with to shed some of it.
There's a slinking and meaningful/propulsive movement to everything that O'Connor and Molinaro put together into song and it all feels like a racket, as if you're getting more out of it than it ever thought it would be giving you. It feels as if you've got a private listening party for someone's innermost thoughts, ones that sound an awful lot like a linear version of your own, as creepy as that is. So you're not spooked, but intrigued. The violins lead us down the cobblestone surrounded on both sides by poisonous apples that we still pile into our baskets and nibble on them when our curiosity gets the better of us. They chronicle those nibbles in the entrancing songs that just simply must be tracking all of the devious plots that our collective minds cook up from the time the sun comes up to the time it comes up again, rattling off all of the possibilities that are lying in the wake.
These are cool waters with patches that could heat noodles, though they're invisible upon looking. Or maybe it's the other way around. It all depends on where your head is that day and how much sleep you've been getting. The dream works. You're somewhere that's not within shouting distance of where you started and that could give you the willies or some serious consternation. Might we suggest a walk?
*Essay originally published November, 2008