We’re all alone; born alone, and for most, destined to die alone. Our life is a never ending search for connections, brief or lasting, that we hold onto with a savage, desperate grip.
When Fred Woods sings, you hear his isolation. Words and picked guitar notes bounce off walls, hoping for – needing – collisions with warmer, more human entities to keep from stopping altogether. His songs feel as vast as oceans, but as calm and restrained as sheltered lakes.
But under the surface, the chaos of electronics, echoes, distortion and heart keep Woods afloat. Woods won’t give in; each swell of horns gives him one new breath. This music, at its core seems desolate but the beautiful, tender moments (“It Was The Sky”, for example) are remarkably full of life.