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Star pupils in a new school of pop deconstruction, Boston’s 27 bleed the hearts of your tired and weary with minimal arrangements and surgical melodies. In the good company of contemporaries like Cat Power, Joan of Arc, Rex, and 33.3, this quartet strips their songs of instrumental and rhythmic excess. Entire verses may be constructed of two or three sustained guitar notes, accompanied by hesitant, almost improvisational drumming. The eerie sparseness of these spatial arrangements creates hauntingly beautiful ambience for sometimes-somber, introspective lyrics. The lilting, almost wordless vocals hang in the air like a confession; weaving a web around sparse piano, guitar, drums, or cello like a justification. At the end, however, these songs offer neither justification nor apology for their intimacy -- only stunning silence.
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