The Moth

Cancer House's The Moth arrives barely lit, a slowcore hush. It has that Bark Psychosis afterimage, that early Low devotional freeze, but scraped down to couch-spring shimmer and dusk-window amp hum, guitars crawling as if afraid to wake the floorboards. The whole thing feels born from the kind of afternoon where nobody remembers to press record - domestic séance latency, moth-wing circuitry, a little chapel of blown speaker dust. Melodies do not announce themselves so much as condense on the walls, sweet and grey and almost gone. Beautifully understated, quietly wrecked, the sort of record that makes volume feel vulgar.