Poetry is more silent than sonic, because it is, above all, an act of listening. Poems are not sung as much they are heard, like the notes of a guitar, the pounding of sea waves or the endless sound of a melody’s furtive echoes which, between subtle static noise, find a sublime place in Hellified Irie. A nostalgic movement, constant, where each composition is an inner voice, distant, yet calling for awareness, finding a sanctuary from the sonic, a refuge beyond reason, a fresh state, full of harmony, not the one of exact things, but one of right, enough things. Josh Mason proposes here a meditative excursion to a sonic oasis, where listening is to living, not to merely to perceiving. Piece by piece, an alluring navigation is crafted from delicate sonic treasures made of finely woven fragments and vast immersion into a beauty found between the oblivion and reminiscence, thus ascending into a oceanic gap of unusual auditory ecstasy. (fet press)