Review: City Pages

From a basement on a hill comes the Cleophone
Sturm und Drone - by Sarah Askari

Every time my house's heat kicks on during this curse-cold October, the hushing wind that blows through the ducts and up the vents lowers my blood pressure as it raises the temperature. White noise makes the anxiety go away. There's a low hum coming from the basement, and it puts me at ease—even though my basement's instrumentation is limited to a furnace (and, of course, an inoperable pipe-organ made from the bones of generations of family enemies). But some basements 'round these parts are more generously outfitted—some basements, in fact, are downright crowded—with Hammond organs and Rhodes electric pianos and timpani and oscillating radios (and, of course, cow bones), all begging to be allowed to sing along with the low, rushing rumble of the furnace.

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