Teletextile is the product of vocalist and multi-dimensional instrument wrangler Pamela Martinez, whose silken voice glistens across the tiny white ear hairs of my waxy listeners like a fragile airflow that can make a glowing candlelight bend backwards with ease like a mystical Russian contortionist. Yes, and with the addition of an arcadian grand piano, violin, cello, harp, and rarely used xylophone, Teletextile, albeit a tumultuous tongue twister of a name, is a resplendent vat of opulent vocals over luxurious instrumentals more powerful than a lunar eclipse of our Earth's favorite star, the sun.
Along with gadget-geek Brian Hamilton, the "KITT car" to "Michael Knight Martinez," Teletextile scramble a plethora of brittle devices in a sizzling pan of celestial grease that serves as a siren call for all UFOs to come to our world and party down like on some friendly "we're not going to evaporate your entire race, we just want to trip out witcha alien ass" type shit. Martinez' voice is way more tolerable than BjÃ¶rk's quirky chirp, with a richness and glow like that of Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beth Gibbons.
At times, Care Package slips into the snooze shelter like most Carnegie Hall concerts where rich old farts pay thousands to simply sleep their fat cat meals off in order to gab to their dying friends that they were there. But how can you blame people with talent for owning their craft? So what if there aren't any guitars or buzzing aftershocks in my tinnitus damaged eardrums? This is an ornate offering of truly radiant music that most young people might not be hip to, what with the Clay Aikens and Beyonces ruling and ruining the world.
I'd like to see the pair sink some money into computers or samplers, something risky and unorthodox to add to Teletextile's arid mixture of instrumental elegance, rather than the traditional collection of placid weapons performed by pimple-faced dorkwads whom I pounded like Andre The Giant in grade, elementary, and high school.
"Come To Bed"