Recorded somewhere near the Sawtooth Mountains, Trevor Powers’ Capricorn plays like a fairy tale or alien quest. Fragmented and full of grace, it serves as a meditation on the passage of time — existing both in the past and future.

After a severe panic attack made his legs numb for a week, Powers knew something had to change. “Control is our god,” he says. “But it’s an illusion. We think we can dictate every day of our lives but that’s like playing chess during an earthquake. Sometimes the pieces move themselves.”

Drawing influence from Keiichi Koike’s Ultra Heaven, Richard Teschner’s puppets, and ancient folklore, Capricorn surfaced. After finding a cabin near the Sawtooths with an old piano, Powers filled his back seats with instruments, cassette recorders, and a computer, and left for a month alone. “We’ve forgotten how bizarre our planet is,” he explains. “Insects are their own gospel choir. Rain is a fucking fever dream. The more Earth I included, the more alien it felt.”

Capricorn paints a world of melancholia and unsettling beauty. Powers’ field recordings, classical motifs, and software sculptures don’t stop time; they examine it like a beetle under a microscope — exposing that the extraordinary is often hidden in plain sight. “From the minute we wake up, we’re in a trance,” he says. “This is music for our digital coma.”

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