Songs: Ohia / Magnolia Electric Co / Jason Molina
$12.00 - $20.00 / On Sale
NEW archival Jason Molina album EIGHT GATES ships August 7th.
At checkout, Use discount code "LOCAL" for local pickup at Landlocked Music in Bloomington, IN and no shipping fee.
If you want pre-orders shipped separately for their release dates, please order separately with separate shipping. Otherwise your items will ship at the time the last item has arrived.
Sometime in 2006 or 2007, Jason Molina moved from the midwest to London. Separated from his bandmates and friends and never one for idleness, Molina explored his new home with fervor. Sometimes he’d head out on foot, often with no destination in mind. Other times, he’d pick a random tube stop and find his way back home. He’d pick up on arcane trivia about London’s rich history, and if the historical factoids weren’t available — or weren’t quite to his liking — Molina conjured his own. When he learned of the London Wall’s seven gates (itself a misconception), Molina went ahead and called it eight, carving out a gate just for himself. The eighth gate was Molina’s way into London, a gate only passable in the mind.
Eight Gates is the last collection of solo studio recordings Molina made before he passed away in 2013. Recorded in London in 2009, some of the songs (“Whispered Away,” “Thistle Blue”) are fully-realized — dark, moody textures that call to mind his earlier work on 'The Lioness'. Other songs (“She Says,” “The Crossroads and The Emptiness”) lay in a more unfinished state, acoustic takes that call to mind Molina’s 'Let Me Go, Let Me Go, Let Me Go', and still tethered to Molina’s humorous studio banter. You remember how young Molina was, and how weighty this art was for such a young man. On the closer, “The Crossroads and The Emptiness,” Molina snaps at the engineer before tearing into a song in which he sings of his birthday (December 30), a palm reading and the great emptiness with which he always wrestled. It's a perfect closer and, in many ways, the eighth gate incarnate: mythical, passable only in the mind, built for himself and partway imaginary but shared, thankfully, with us.