A din of reverberation swells slightly in your ear cavity. It expands like a balloon until it can't contain its surging interior, and then it caves in with a snape. In the open margin left by the collapse of this resonate envelope is the kernel of a beat. An oaky babble whose gait is complimented by the lumber of a dry but fleshy tom that manages to wind between the steps of the first rhythm like a stocky plover darting between the legs of a striding crane. The fellowship of these opposing sounds quickly find themselves in the company of ever more strange but gratifying partnerships; such a crackling sound of peanut shells underfoot, the bubbly skoosh of aqua-colored bongos, and a cheerfully wavy thread of solar-saturated guitar chords. I'm used to such combinations of AOR emblems sounding best when a layer of standard compression is applied, leaving the sounds slightly pruned and obfuscated, but left wholly occupying the available space of the recording- a common but aesthetical limitation of even high-end studio products from the '70s and '80s. What's really impressive about "Don't Run," off of Jared Mattson's Peanut, is that guitarist, songwriter, and producer is able to set such nominal sound collages within the depths of 3D space that modern sound recording is able to enable and still manage to make it sound novel and compelling. One of my main complaints about progressive rock recordings of this era is that they tend to lack the confidence to allow for open space on a record, as well as the frame of mind to properly direct the listener's attention toward sounds that are capable of striking the ear as inexhaustible, even after multiple listens. In this area, Peanut excels. However, Jared's debut solo LP has other facets that are worthy of commendation as well, whether it concerns his smooth, effortless guitar playing, which impresses on the sonic canvas of the record a natural parallel between smooth jazz progressions and Yellow Magic Orchestra-esque grooves, or his thrillingly subdued collaborations with Gotch, frontman of the Japanese punk band Asian Kung-Fu Generation, or the high whimsy blur and slow-motion pirouette of his cover of Ween's "She Wanted to Leave," or even his general synthesis of reggae embossed guitar melodies and brittle pop textures, the latter borrowed from artists in the sphere of Men at Work, which he then bends to his needs as if these panes of reflective glass were as flexible as blades of grass. Where ever you crack into Peanut, you won't find a moment that isn't the byproduct of some unexpected stroke of genuine inspiration. Still, I reserve my greatest praise for his ability to make sounds that usually benefit from a little bit of technical bottlenecking, feel fully realized and potent in their newfound abundance.
