The cover of 7.32/2.11 is a faded Rorschach test. The scattered and blurred greyscale image could be a million different things, but there’s a surprising amount of movement hidden in the bleakness. Ghostly figures stand in line, waiting for their chance to pass through a doorway into the mountain’s depths. Auroras dance in the sky, puppeteers pulling cosmic strings, laughing through the pain, breathing in winter’s degradation like the sweetest perfume. Perila digs shallow trenches on her journey as time stands still, but death and sorrow continue taking furtive glances.
Hollowed bass swells push against phantom pads, the dense combination of frequencies like an inner ear massage, a blanket swaddling synapses into fake comforts. Perila’s restraint could hold clouds in place. Melancholy longs for a new season in the light electronic skitters, the low pass resonance opening and closing like an underwater diving bell. It returns, holding hands with the upper echelons, creating space for Perila’s soft breath on the spellbinding, wicked timbres of “Haven’t Left Home 4 4 Days.” Simple repeating patterns build geometric walls, her voice the shapeless figure floating aimlessly while looking upward for an escape hatch.
So much of 7.32/2.11 is steeped in traces of the pensive loneliness of separation and isolation. Wistful imagery gets wrapped in cooling blankets, ideas of escape subdued by ruminative tones and disparate passages. “This Story Doesn’t Make Any Sense” lives up to its title, questioning the unbelievable predicaments that continue spiraling out of control. Perila laments, winding through an inner monologue that fades into the darkening sky, “I can’t talk right now. My both hands are busy.” Distraction and escapism move in tandem in the wordless vocal drifts and repetitive guitar strums, all maneuvering gently around a simmering synthetic framework that spews aural debris.
Permeating the haze of 7.32/2.11 is this underlying, questioning voice that keeps wondering where do we go from here. Soaked piano explorations on “Crash Sedative” offer no answers, but keep the riving flowing forward and an eye on the moon’s glow. Within this constant state of impermanence, certain markers become enigmatic beacons. Nobody has a clue what’s coming, but even in the most isolated spaces, there are still moments and connections to share.
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