Bobby Lee trades in a wide screen brand of cosmic country-folk, full of space and pawn shop guitars.

There are touches of JJ Cale's analogue Americana, the swampy groove of Tony Joe White and Richard Thompson's sinewy, modal guitar work.

Amps hum in the warm afternoon sun, kids and dogs snooze on the grass and broken drum machines keep time with the universe_Open sky/scorched earth improvisations recorded to four track tape during the rare moments of solitude afforded by lockdown and early fatherhood.

Bobby Lee's "worn-denim psych-country" remains, but the ancestral spirits of Ashra, Popol Vuh and Terry Riley are present here too.

Time and technological limitations have been embraced. A song dreamt up, tracked and mixed in an afternoon, never to be tampered with again.

Imperfections allowed to stand; knowing that nothing is ever truly finished. The Bob Ross school of philosophy.

"Overdriven drum-machine low slung choogle" - MOJO "The further Bobby unmoors himself from songs and heads towards long-form abstraction, the more engrossing it becomes" - UNCUT