As with all Greek myths, there are several contradictory versions of the story of Hephaestus, but in each one, he was exiled from paradise and forced to toil at his craft on the Earth before he could go home, transformed into an artisan god.
Alone, he drew the ancient redwoods around him like a curtain and set to work on Time Is Glass. Rather than adding new experiments to those spread across his dozens of releases, he resumed them, using all the powers he'd banked, from the special vantage of where it all began.
On Time Is Glass, the song ['Hephaestus'] is a dramatic outlier: a musky, supple, soul-shivering drone piece that credibly evokes sparks peeling from a divinely immense anvil.
The bookends, 'The Mission' and 'New Year's Song,' lay out his songwriting materials in their sparest pieces-the room tone chirring like cicadas, your ear right up against the hole in the guitar, and a thin, sweet, slightly aloof voice floating down from somewhere above.
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