“107” by Matt Kurtz [a review]

October 26, 2020

On a lonely patch of ground somewhere on the Kent campus lies the barely marked remains of Robert Smithson’s Partially Buried Woodshed.  Smithson’s piece on entropy has seen its share of natural and unnatural processes since its inception in 1970, just weeks before the infamous shootings—fires, graffiti, time itself.  It is at this quiet mound of grass, under a grove of trees, that artist Matt Kurtz would return, over and over again, to reflect, to draw inspiration, to meditate on his own entropic life.  Just a few weeks ago, Kurtz released his first album of songs, simply titled 107, seemingly after the four short transitionary breaks of sound that segment the album.  The songs themselves—apocalyptic and beautiful—drift like tumbleweeds across plains of steel guitar, electric guitar solos, banjo strums and the artist’s own fragile voice, pleading to God, grappling with love, grappling with doubt, seeking to make sense of a planet rapidly eroding.  And in those one minute and seven second breaks, we hear the wisdom of children, the chirping of birds, a choir singing, a heart beating.  In those one minute and seven second breaks, we hear something close to an answer.    

Listen, download, purchase here.

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