t has been argued that electronics remove the tactile relationship between musician and instrument, a lamentable trend symptomatic of an environment in which technology is but another barrier for communication. Moreover, customary musical forms are to be shunned for similar reasons, as they are said to lack openness, fluidity, have hardened into dogma, rules for their own sake.

A brief sketch of Christopher Crisci's musical history: With each successive stride said Appleseed Cast guide led his band out of the muddled pastures of said first premise so that they might embrace the second all the more fervently. But as writer's don copious guises like a person does garments, so that they might behave in a manner foreign to their former temperament, so to does Crisci don the name Old Canes. Left behind are dry nipping ambient winds and sleepy-eyed guitars like so many tattered articles of clothing and in their place emerge woolly layers of banjo, children's xylophones, trumpets and home-recorded toy pianos. One may think the boys silly in such attire, that the cuffs on their pant legs would loom dangerously high above ground, that their shirts would cling ridiculously close to the skin, but as Old Canes they look quite believable, as though they had been playing at this part for some time now.

Recorded on equipment likely older than his audience, one imagines Crisci packing a burlap sack, sleeping bag and trekking out into the woods, with friends Jordan Geiger (Minus Story) and Nathan Richardson (The Casket Lottery) to craft ardent songs over a crackling campfire. Throughout, Crisci sounds as though he's just woken up, as his voice trembles like a leaf; this trip gets underway with rattling percussion, pots and pans as well as tinkling glockenspiel before everything bursts like a rainbow-coloured soap bubble. But now all has been unpacked and with a fire being sparked, "Blue Eleanor" unfurls and is indicative of this album as a whole: fervently strummed acoustic guitar, rolling drum patterns and marching band percussion act as a garden bed atop which Crisci's voice, which occasionally rises to croak like a raven, provides a melody, while breathy trumpet, harmonica and various decorous sounds scurry about like insects at their own whim.

On occasion, as with "Then Go On", a more timid, spare and lithe pace is found, where these gentlemen no longer kick up dirt with their heels and dance circles about the fire, they sit back to catch their breath; such hymns provide sea walls to help prevent the gushing waters of other hymns from flooding together and appearing identical. For some time these precautionary measures succeed, however, after repeated listens these concrete walls show cracks and bodies of water such as "Face It" and "Early Morning Hymns" begin to spray together. What's more, this collection seems to have many of its affecting pieces placed beside each other at the beginning, as though these trekkers arrived with aspirations and vigour, but as the night settled into its bed they themselves grew drowsy, began to yawn and sprout unenthused songs in the mould of their former creations.

As for lyrical themes, Crisci still ponders over relationship woes; but does so with the passion of a believer who professes their every article of faith with such wide-eyed conviction that your obliged to reconsider the creed proclaimed. Similarly, though menaced by repetition, there is great articulacy and sympathy between each member of the party. This project appears to have grown out of a desire for light-hearted good fun and, as though they were resting just outside their circle over the campfire watching them play, it enables each listener to experience just that.