Radio Wars is the first album of the prolific Paco Cathcart, aka The Cradle, that I've listened to all the way through. And I dig it. I have a thing for principled, personal and ephemeral DIY recordings, and Radio Wars is certainly all three in no uncertain terms. Paco has done some folker stuff in the past that I never really vibed with, but Radio Wars hits a lot of key pleasure points in my brain that make it easy for me to tune into its frequency. Stuff like frantic electronic production, dreamy but palpable textures, breathy filtered singing, colorful synth chords and loops, and the odd cowbell sound effect. I have no idea where I picked up an affinity for these things, but Paco clearly understands how much I love them, otherwise, they wouldn't have included them all in their album (often in the same track!). It's like I'm in the presence of a star. A master of the moment. A known face in the throng of indie's elite coterie. As if Hot Chip were personally demoing some new material for me, in my apartment, down-scaled to suit the intimacy of the setting, with all the windows, open so the neighbors can hear. Private and yet uncontained. An eclectic and electric congregation and weirdo dance party of wizardly possums and wisened, urban-garden-dwelling fairies casting spells to feed your imagination and nurture it from a guppy to a 12-foot-long, mythical koi. When Radio Wars is on, I can't help the sensation that there is a lot of fresh air rushing in around me, gasping through open portals and unseen cracks in the floor and walls, and that even though I am in a confined space, my present environment is not enough to contain everything that is flowing through, past and around me. Radio Wars is an act of sharing. I can say that conclusively, not only because it was authored and recorded by someone with the intent to be heard, but also because it is a work that was created with the clear conviction that the connections we form through art are always strong enough to bridge the divides that keep us apart.
