As with many artists operating within oneiric states of lo-fi, the go-to parallels for the escapist imagery conjured by the music of Dean Cercone would be Deerhunter, Animal Collective, and any and every project affiliated with the aforesaid. That his every sonic manoeuvre is documented at his parents' house in Renfrew, Pennsylvania however perhaps aligns him stylistically more with Bradford Cox' Bedroom Databank volumes than it may with the widescreen visions of Baltimore's most vivid dreamers although when the final product is quite this stirring any disharmony in such balancing of influence pales swiftly into insignificance. A quite spectacular 'album' released at the turn of the year entitled still life with seeds, dedicated to his late mother, demonstrates a heartfelt integrity sparsely witnessed within such musical confines that even an infinity of My Sharona cover blared out from behind balaclava could never attain as static background hum is sliced open by gloriously clear guitar lines. More recent recordings insinuate a newfound spring in Cercone's step though and sex, a delicate haze of metronomic balladry, shimmers with what sounds like a processed guitar spiralling within a kaleidoscope as glittery flecks tumble over copulatory moans. The candid vocal delivery sits well with the coital drone lingering in the backdrop and, only sprinkled with a distorted crackle, again hikes up the emotivity involved in a mutedly exceptional track.
However it's the entrancing Blind Melon-meets-BRAIDS pulsation of a reflection of you that most aptly befits the wondrous blue skies that are these days washing overhead, smeared on the uppermost eye line by some divine brush. Elastic guitar harmonies and candied vocals sound as though Cercone is frantically attempting to clamber skywards, like an agitated child leaping to catch stray helium sack. On this sort of form Cercone can set his sights higher than that unending, outstretched azure for a frolic atop the silver lining of his Soundcloud proves purely celestial.
