The water in the glass beside the bed has not been fresh since before last night. The body needs light, but outside it is already too bright. Carrie DeCunzo Mirande’s alarm clock rings muffled from a great distance; she surrounds herself – and us, the listeners – with nothing but her own shadow, cast into the room by a sun under which there is nothing new.
Over the course of exactly half an hour, the pianist, singer and »computer musician« Mirande draws us deep into isolation. Dogs bark outside, birds flicker somewhere beyond the traffic – just barely audible behind the stench of exhaust fumes – while you are inside, inside, inside, emphatically inside. Across four pieces there is nothing but tones and poetry, bleeps and drones; maybe it was the espresso, maybe it’s a panic attack.
Mirande holds her notes for a long time. Anything else would be too uplifting. Everything remains covered, veiled. And sometimes she sings. Her voice cuts into the austerity created by the sound image. You want to escape into its softness, its tenderness, finally: humanity. But what you find instead is, above all, more sadness. My Shadow is unrelenting in its consistency, refusing at any point to allow even the smallest spark of joy to emerge. Now quickly, a piece of chocolate.
