Limited edition CD and DL available here from France's Soft Recordings - softrecords.bandcamp.com/album/one-day-well-all-walk-outside-and-stare-up-at-the-blameless-sky-and-wait-for-something-to-happen
"Another ambient head trip into the murkiness of the unconscious and the unknown…unsettling and beautiful sounds…yet another provocative an eerily beautiful release from an extremely forward-thinking group" - Foreign Accents
"Lost Trail have evolved over the years, and that’s a very natural thing. No longer is their music a Saturday afternoon dare that the local teens used to pull off, that nervy walk to the once-decadent mansion that had a very valid reputation for being haunted...the pale colors of the VHS tape have finally faded, and Lost Trail have entered the new, cooler year of 2015...rain sweeps the roadside, and their haunting, yet extremely beautiful harmonies enter alongside. The gritty dirt of a side-road’s asphalt gets caught up inside the worn sneakers. And Lost Trail’s music somehow feels like it’s aged, its skin of drone somehow creasing. Their music now has a raw surge of power that never used to be there. Drones that used to be as wispy as ectoplasmic residue have now been forged in the tough steel of the American industrial sector. Their music has toughened up, and so has America." - A Closer Listen
In youth there were days of such blinding splendor
that in each scratched and faded photograph we're wincing,
as if all staring at the sun in our backyards,
collectively waiting for some fantastic rapture to descend.
In those times I knew every fire road like my own skin,
every bone and vein of those rutted secret trails
carving at the forests beyond the neighborhood.
This was my topography, our permanent abandon.
Now those lines have wandered away into hovering mist
between bent branches, disappearing beneath leaves and logs
or ensnared in the rusted teeth of bear traps yawning metallically.
Now the timber paths have sung their last refrain
and haunted, shrink softly into the horizon.
A dark, dark journey of spirits and alchemy conjured in the supernaturally hot, still spring of 2014 in Burlington, North Carolina, that haunted black X on the map buried deep in the Alamance foothills. These are the wailings of phantoms trapped beneath the floorboards and between the walls of our murky and crumbling 1910 home, buried on sleeping side-streets within a moment's reach of swarming, grasping woods. These are the sheets of rain swept in the doorway, the static churning of a possessed shortwave radio, the spitting demons of electricity and malfunction and broken, obsolete machines slowly giving way to organic sounds, light, an upward journey out of the very hands of night's oblivion and into more luminous, radiant decay. Here lies collapse, entropy, and rebirth.