Port St. Willow is a place. You’re invited to come along. It is remedial, revelatory, therapeutic. There’s enough room for everyone. There are vast, open fields stretching out beyond what you can see. There are dark, solitary spaces with echoes, both haunting and beautiful, reverberating throughout the cavernous depths. The sky, if you choose to look at it, is a constant shade of silver, with slivers of white swathed over the horizon. The mountains stand in solemn resplendence: firm, but somehow empathetic.
Holiday is archaically beautiful. It does not hearken back to an age of wistful nostalgia, nor does it look forward to any sort of future. It exists in its own time and space and mentality. It’s a feeling, an experience, a companion. It is monumental, yet subtle. It could easily and equally soundtrack an existential epiphany or an afternoon nap, perhaps suggesting some innate affinity between the two, or between everything— the delicate, muted beauty that can be found in every moment, so long as you look the right way. ”Orphan,” the album’s centerpiece, will help you do just that.
