Listening to Doveman makes me want to die because:
Listening to Doveman makes me want to live because:
Either way, this is music to die to. When the fifty-three minutes of Doveman's debut, The Acrobat, have ended, then, and only then, can you calmly pass from this world knowing there is nothing more to feel, know, sense or experience. Wasn't this album playing in that scene from Soylent Green when Sol forfeits his life to learn all the world's secrets? No? Well, it certainly would have fit.
A classically trained pianist and melancholy aficionado, Bartlett, supported by longtime friend Sam Amidon, created a concept for Doveman: two core musicians tightly follow a composition and auxiliary players join in at will, untied to the song's structure. The approach results in every sound melting together as if it were produced by one mind, unifying The Acrobat with an unfaltering mood that contorts itself through such distinct shapes as the distant-feeling "Boy+Angel," the minimally orchestral "Clouds" and the conflicted "Dancing."
Bartlett's songwriting pines over loves lost and the accompanying malaise with a clouded head of familiar, honest and never-too-profound human response. Wringing out his inner turmoil with a faint whisper, Bartlett presents himself bare -- faults and all -- to his audience. That said, The Acrobat is only for those willing to enter Doveman's world of remorse, those looking for something recognizable and potentially uplifting buried within the sorrow. The album is not merely to be enjoyed. Treat it like an experience, discover its (and your) secrets, and consider your mind blown.
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