Pram Prisoner of the Seven Pines. Normally, this, Pram, is my stock answer for my most favorite band ever. Lovely little Pram. It grants me an aloof sense of indifference. Were they not so absolutely glamourous then Pram should instead be American. They plunder the shadows of obscurity, never once threatening the mainstream, and yet they continue on. It is all so amiably American. Would they consider that a compliment? Here on Beluga they have the tiny twinkles, the wheeze addled horn, the clever clever percussion and that spooky ambience as if they cheered while writing the alternative soundtrack for Leslie Caron in Lili. Sparkles in the fog arrive by way of staggered keyboard motifs. So so marvelous. I had a plan to include 'marvelous' in every entry once upon a time. I also once claimed to have a desire to never use the singular pronoun. All that has resulted is that I have became an abject failure when it comes to defending my stylistic mandates. Next song. Bouncy, very Sleepy Sweet, more charming, it is nearly Stereolab-y kitschy. It's a remix by Psapp. They are meant to be fun and galoopy. This is both. Chirpy samples, squeezebox strings and toy organs, all tuned to a delicious sense of naivety. I too am so very naive. I wonder if it has turned obvious to the outside world. I almost admitted to being a public dreamer yesterday. I once thought it noble, my quest to endure college long enough without the stigma of a degree to dim my idealistic light. But it seemed drearily unpoetic in shadows along the 8th fairway. I have hope. Financial remuneration for university success! Possibly. But then even that vision has become shorn of gilt. Third song, Martin doom, dark and foreboding. Sparse and flighty. Theremins hang from the ceiling and mirrors turned on an axis to reflect the insides of hearts. A mirror to reflect your inner self would be a terrifying utensil. I have never considered that she may have been lying about being Elvis Presley's sweetheart. It seemed so intensely youthful, a trapped in amber heart fluttering of a butterfly on a impending supernova. Was the heat already bubbling just beneath. There is not anything lingering just beneath my exterior, only a second exterior and deeper within only more teflon surfaces. My heart is bereft. Passion? Or does it need resuscitating from without? This is a bit Murcof-y? No? It was remixed by Aguirre Wrath of Godsy which is surely a pseudonym for some fabulously corny German. Almost certainly. Or, he may be someone famous. Or, he is a she. I saw Pram play live once. I saw Pram play with Heavenly. For charity. Now Amelia Fletcher is attempting to guide sterling and engineer soft landings while Pram is tinkling in basements of foreclosed multi-level abodes. This is a marvelous remix record. So was their last. Is it the child like innocence in the ominous tones that sets free the hearts and fingers of digital remixers? There is a digitization of human emotion in these moments. It's water, fire, earth and air all in equal measure, it's perfectly balanced inside the normally desiccated interior of a remix album. Now we're speeding to the outer reaches with sizzling keyboard twinges of escapism. Clarinet like a tribble in mourning. Terrific. Last one, voice in an echo chamber, radio static, church organ, spacemen ray guns and a hip hop beat. Is this a Pram effort? Possibly. Through the looking glass...