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Mike Dumovich


Bicuspid, like Ma and Pa, sister and brother, friend and lover, deer and a headlight—sorrow is a song that rides shotgun to love and death, resulting in one last breath —that is hope.

Like so many snippets written about songs and songwriters, it’s hard to employ language to describe feelings that exist beneath and beyond tongue and tooth, beneath the armored chest plate that shelters heart and soul. I’ve walked through the landscapes of Mike Dumovich’s music many times in my dreams and waking hours. I have etched out in my mind the locale of all the discarded remnants of machine fragments, dismembered engines, axles and wheels with no hope for deployment. The fluorescing shells of insects, the sound of a swallow’s wing clipping the air, ACRES-- of land sowed by farmers you never see, their ghosts etching magical patterns, hewing wheat filled hill sides.

Authenticity can only exist in our dreams now, and paying homage to lost ferment seems like the best way to find yourself again. The eternal ache, trapped within the four chambers, stirs up what once was true. I am not just a fan of Mike Dumovich’s music, but also a blissed out resident of the kingdom his music evokes. Here, it is a kindred place— an aortic salve and the souls own antivenin, both ancient and modern, where broken discarded hearts might become whole again—might actually still be found, beating.

- Jesse Sykes, 7/17/19

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