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My father ran a store in downtown Managua where he sold textiles, the singers inform us.
I would jump on the long rolls of fabric and run around the store talking to everyone.
This wordy and plush reverie seems to have sprung from that fragment of memory.
Its not stitched through with postcard folklore or local rhythms.
The piece takes the form of a spotty family memoir.
The characters names are omitted, their personalities hazy, their motivations impossible to reconstruct.
That patchiness can be frustrating, like so much family history.
What did they think, how did they feel?
Would I have liked them?
The voices are clean, clear, and natural.
Or else they slip intentionally out of phase so that you cant distinguish the holler from its echo.
Lean triads bloom into chords that glisten with dissonance.
