GHOST TO FALCO
“It’s about coming to grips with the idea that humans are fucking up terribly,” says Eric Crespo, discussing the lyrical concerns of his eerie and oddly engaging brainchild, Ghost to Falco. Since he’s based in perpetually soggy Portland, Ore., it’s tempting to attribute Crespo’s dour outlook to seasonal affective disorder, but Crespo incubated Ghost to Falco in Chapel Hill and conceived it in Asheville before bringing it to full flower in misty Portlandia. Over time, Ghost to Falco evolved from a swirling, beatless one-man show to a full band, playing haunting compositions that sit uneasily at the intersection of minimalism, threadbare folk and experimental prog rock. Described as After the Gold Rush-era Neil Young backed by British noise terrorists This Heat, Ghost to Falco features gentle guitar strumming, bursts of atonal noise and allusive talk-singing that seems to emerge from Crespo’s subconscious. Imagine slabs of latter-day Scott Walker’s musique concrète raining down on a ravaged Americana landscape. It’s no accident Crespo’s recent LP, Exotic Believers, opens with the cut “Black Hole,” since he’s perfected the cloudy and obsessed sound of roots rock collapsing into itself.