It's difficult to find the right music for staring off into space. Dub and reggae sometimes work, but only because the stuff is so mind-numbingly boring that it might as well not play at all. In fact, pop into your local coffee shop (as long as it isn't Starbucks for god's sake), ask them to put on some reggae, and then read a book. I guarantee you'll devour the text with more fervor than ever before because your brain, upon sensing sound devoid of meaning, looks for something--anything--else on which to focus.
Discovering music that enhances the staring off into space experience, on the other hand, is rare. Echolocation, the 2001 release by Fruit Bats, is just such an album. If Jack Johnson makes you want to put ice picks in your ears, Fruit Bats will stay your hand.
Multi-instrumental, poetic, and layered with lush harmonies, Echolocation is not so much mellow as it is introspective. You won't want to smoke a doobie and ponder on the existence of extraterrestrial life. You may, however, gaze out toward the horizon and recall the name of the girl who held your hand beneath the old sweet gum trees when you were eight. It's end of the day music: good for leaning against the car parked up on the beach thinking about the miles you have yet to go; good for sitting cross-legged in the park and inhaling the aroma of fresh cut grass; good for watching storms roll by; good for seeing street lights flicker on; good for waiting.
Plus, all their song titles are in lower case: so e.e.cummings.
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