Cole Pulice's Scry is not a traditional album. Or maybe it is. Depends on how you look at it. Albums, in contemporary parlance, typically constitute a constellation of songs that all share some aesthetic binding, whether it be overtly thematic, or a grouping of similar acoustic explorations held in unison by some temporal glue. Before the Beatles and Miles Davies though, albums had a more parochial definition, as merely a collection of songs, not even meant to be heard in any particular order, but bundled together for the convenience and pleasure of the listener. Scry is certainly the latter- songs that are grouped together and meant to be enjoyed together. It's also the former- a collection of works arranged with the intent to lubricate and liberate an unrestrained sense of inquiry in which the presented pallet of sounds magnifies, amplifies, and transmutes perspectives and reflections on the loose, abstract patterns of reality. What's more, Cole seems to intend that Scry operates as both- a thing that is bluntly enjoyable and free of pretense, while being contrastingly and conceptually fluid without clear parameters for interpretation. Suspended in this dichotomous state, it becomes an apt tool for the act of scrying itself. As is the case with a shard of warn, tinted glass, the album serves as an unassuming, but plainly beautiful object, but when in the right hands and held at the right angle, it becomes a murky portal through which one can pass through the aether of our conscious discernment and discover the fantastic truths buried beyond the barriers of nominal sight. Trailing behind every note, and tucked around every corner, there is potential for treasure to be found. Whether you pick up such gems or stumble past them is a matter of openness and insight. Scry can assist you in honing your command of divination, but only if you let it work its magic on you.
