In the first instance, an album titled Presence would seem to indicate some stupefying or haunting encounter- an experience somewhere between running into your favorite author at a coffee shop and waking up in the middle of the night to discover your long-deceased uncle floating overhead and smiling down upon you. Both could be considered disconcerting in their own right (especially if your favorite author has also allegedly left this mortal coil). Presence from Luis Felber's Attawalpa represents something of a third-option thought- a calming departure from the ordinary and a point of fluctuation in the strained fabric of modern life. On this album, Luis plays the role of the white rabbit, leisurely leading you astray- unhurriedly persuading you away from the babble and bustle that typically overtakes you and into a new train of discrepancy with the potential for alignment with a higher intendment of one's purpose. He achieves the ends of this diversion through an embrace of simplicity and a streamlined sanctity of purpose- sleek but sturdy guitar work buttresses varicolored harmonies that flourish in an anchored state of antigravity. His voice is like a cloud, the rhythm is like the wind, and the motion of the music is like a ship embarking on a voyage towards a castle in the clouds. Presence is as lofty as it is ambitious.
