Hinted and gliped at on earlier releases, CT57's Road to Nowhere is the culmination of their ambient quintessentially quotidian aura mining. The lifeblood of the deep, dark arteries that spread in horizontally varicose planes of the logico-geography dimension of this continent's straining, fading providence, the subject of this album is the roaring silver beasts and their wakefully somnambulist handlers, who act as thankless red-blood cells circulating oxygen in a corpulent and ungrateful host. A faltering pulse of static and muffled engine groans, which overturns the solitude of the night with an eerily comforting hum that stretches like a blanket of sound over the sheltered and sand-blasted tresses of a world that is recognized only in passing. The cab buzzes like a knitting-circle of wasps, subsumed in ghostly transmissions from distant, similarly pressed compatriots and hungry points of terminus greedily awaiting longing to swallow the guts they pull in train. The road exhales in warm tones even in the dead of night, the friction of the tires defibrillating a mask of life into each pebble and grain it passes over. A midnight lullaby of deasil-odysseys, breathing cold solace into the depths of the day's shadowy twin, revealing secret societies and unknown passages, as they slip away in the endless stream of blind commerce. Delivery fulfillment without a guarantee of mortal fulfillment, lumbering through galleries of interstate-interstitials lit by a driving enterprise that only knows its next destination, but has yet to glimpse itself in the rearview mirror.
