In sequences of chord changes as seamless as the dawn, John Koehler has left us with a strange and beautiful travelogue. Rain on pavement morphs with the pages of books one has read—these pages become part of us, too. When we’re not looking, a tree by the side of the road opens to the winged nations of childhood. Something happening on the other side of the world blooms and is crushed and blooms again in the palm of the imagination. John passes it along with a warmth and reverence. That succeeds in convincing me that nothing one experiences is experienced in vain.
April 17, 2022