After seven months in quarantine, something resembling mild sanity/”Mild Sanity” is what we all want. Everything, it seems, is greyed with dust: picture frames with no new memories to fill them with, beds in guest rooms that won’t be slept in anytime soon, pianos clothed in silence for weeks, months, maybe even a year. Quarantine has been defined by stasis; stasis by absence.
Edwin Raphael seems to wake up to this, half asleep, words and melody narcotized by ennui, searching for “some kind of serotonin.” But when Juletta’s voice floats in, weightless and ethereal (the perfect foil to how grounded and earthy Raphael’s is), it sounds like the first sliver of sunlight that seeps through the curtain onto your pillow, the smallest motion — the strum of individual guitar strings, the one-three beat of the drums, the cirrus-like background vocals — felt in full-screen-cinema proportions. Perhaps Raphael said it best in his press release:
“But every so often you stumble upon that day where everything is nothing like you knew before. You see colors you’ve never seen before; you stare at the same ceiling but it gives you an entire cosmos today.”