by Jimmie Kilpatrick ¦ May 9, 2019
If I see a copy of Tiny Mirrors by Sandro Perri in a record store, I buy it and gift it. In doing so, I feel as if I’m giving the recipient a permanent high-five, or an endless glass of cool water. If you ever come across this record, you should buy it for someone you love, yourself included. It is flawless. The songs on Tiny Mirrors are soft and silky like a bruised pear. They are delicate but not precious. The players converse with bleeps and bloops and voices that soar and swoop. In the dog days of summer, ten plus years ago, I saw Sandro Perri play some of these songs in a church. It was so hot on that New Brunswick day that the maximum capacity crowd actually began to melt. We didn’t mind melting; the music was melting too. We were just happy to be doing the same thing as the music.
Family tree: Heartbeat – grandpa plays the bass.
City of Museums: Nylon-stringed field trip to an empty room – a motorcycle passes by.
Double Suicide: Drums flicker a flame lighting the path for baby birds; “feed us.”
The Drums: Not drums – a school of fish.
Everybody’s Talkin: The end of a movie – the beginning of every afternoon.
The Mime: The arc of a playground swing set.
You’re the One: Turning and burning.
White Flag Blues: Your first car – your first night drive.
Love Is Real: Open your windows to the world.
Mirror Tree: Melting music.