A dub-reggae séance for the shortwave age. Somewhere on the twelve-meter band, a pirate signal from forty years ago is still broadcasting — weather reports for storms long past, toasts from dance halls that were torn down, a voice calling out a name the listener almost answers to. The song tunes in at 3am and lets the transmission bleed through: every echo another year, every reverb a little more of the sender gone. Dub as haunting, not decoration — the delays aren't effects, they're the ghosts themselves.
"The song you cut is the song you are / every tune a letter to a fading star."
