Pascal Babare was born in southern Australia, the son of a choral singer and a composer. His mother can only hear in one ear and sings like an angel; his father was the first ex-gangster to join the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra.
Raised in and out of ashrams on a diet of Pet Sounds and droning chant, Pascal cared for his first mentor, a camel named Jinglebaba, while listening to 2-Pac and devising uniquely horrific ways to kill insects. Wondering what it all meant, he wrote to Brian Wilson, who wrote back, telling him to focus on the heart’s vibrations. He keeps the letter close to this day.
A drummer in his pre-teens, Pascal picked up other instruments as his school days dwindled, first with others and then alone. So the banging was expanded with guitars, harmoniums, birds and thighs, all finding form in sublime chunks of warm, rickety pop. By nineteen, he had written and put to tape Thunderclap Spring, his first elpee.
Self-recorded, in thick-carpeted suburbia, in thin-walled Japan, in fog-blanked London, on street corners and during carnivals, Thunderclap Spring is possessed of a a lightness and a song writing genius that belies its creator’s years. Through naïve morning ragas, ecstatic shouts and evening croons, slide guitars ride percussion slaps, loops and yelps, coming together in hooks and curves that leap and turn with words of wonder, Vikings and quiet discovery.
Thunderclap Spring is a work of intricate, wide-eyed joy, a record of sun, rain, light and shadows.
Raised in and out of ashrams on a diet of Pet Sounds and droning chant, Pascal cared for his first mentor, a camel named Jinglebaba, while listening to 2-Pac and devising uniquely horrific ways to kill insects. Wondering what it all meant, he wrote to Brian Wilson, who wrote back, telling him to focus on the heart’s vibrations. He keeps the letter close to this day.
A drummer in his pre-teens, Pascal picked up other instruments as his school days dwindled, first with others and then alone. So the banging was expanded with guitars, harmoniums, birds and thighs, all finding form in sublime chunks of warm, rickety pop. By nineteen, he had written and put to tape Thunderclap Spring, his first elpee.
Self-recorded, in thick-carpeted suburbia, in thin-walled Japan, in fog-blanked London, on street corners and during carnivals, Thunderclap Spring is possessed of a a lightness and a song writing genius that belies its creator’s years. Through naïve morning ragas, ecstatic shouts and evening croons, slide guitars ride percussion slaps, loops and yelps, coming together in hooks and curves that leap and turn with words of wonder, Vikings and quiet discovery.
Thunderclap Spring is a work of intricate, wide-eyed joy, a record of sun, rain, light and shadows.
