Lanky and drained is the typical posture of Cale Parks, the drummer and extracurricular instrumentalist for Aloha and loop-obsessed electronica wizard. It's a loose-limbed, slump-shouldered, dragging amble that he uses to get him from one spot to another and it takes a thick-downed parka overtop his rib cage and those slumped shoulders to even give the illusion of any grist on his bones or the thought that he could survive in below zero temperatures. He'd be better off just hunkering down inside somewhere and curling up in front of a wide-open vent while wrapped in three sleeping bags, for his status in the face of a harsh winter wind would be questionable, most likely critically inept. He's like a buck-seventy tops, and though he could blow away during white-out conditions in the rural countryside, Parks is keen enough to the haunting possibility that he may never put himself into a position to ever have to see how his resolve and fragile frame would fare in those conditions. He works his time away painstakingly assembling all of his disjointed musical ideas and seeing which ones are going to play in the same sandbox together, which ones are going to become the veritable and moody tunes that could fitfully dispel any thought that Parks would even want to set feet outside in times of cruddy weather or that of mediocre sunshine. The artificial light is just fine and actually, while you're up, just cut the lights for him. He'd rather just get under the covers and give himself away to the resting heart rates and getting enough sleep stockpiled to never get himself into a deficit of one of life's necessities. Under those covers is a flashlight and some keyboards that need to be used to see him though this kind of tiring predicament, where the eyes just don't want to stay open any more and it's not even that they can't, they just don't plain want to stay open for unnecessary reasons. It can just be that there need to be pulled shades, silence all throughout the room and come cozy mattress and comforter to take him through to a portion of time that he doesn't want to sleep through. Parks' creative output on his latest album Sparklace is by no means pedestrian and slacker-ish in nature, but it occupies a space with music that is going to get you into a groove that takes you and puts you into those comfortable clothes that don't require any heavy lifting in. They are the clothing of the buzzing drone of the electrical currents forming a grid in every conceivable direction across every inch of space, and every inch of Parks' stretching and interesting notes on where we go after we yawn - or after we're through yawning uncontrollably signaling the end of the day or the early start of it. The songs on Sparklace are talismans for the sleep deprived or the sleep goblins, worshipping the opportunities to just rest beyond their means, submitting to rapid eye movement and the sneaky motion pictures that the mind throws like a tamed flame against drawn eyes. Parks proudly embarks on songs that get rowdy in the realm of dreams and the dramatic uncertainties of all that can happen when the security alarms aren't activated or they've been turned off for the evening. These songs are poised with dim lights that add much to the feelings and lines that could be regarded as the postponement of anything too strenuous. They're about finding solace in the thought that good or bad, what will happen, will just happen, whether we're sleeping or awake and there's a chance that less damage can be done by the sleeping, less damage can be done by those who believe stoutly when they sing a line like, "I'll never ask for more than what had come before," and sense that the words could become a lifestyle or a bumper sticker that should be used to rally the masses, to reform the masses. Parks rallies those shuffling troubles and sends them to bed where it gets crowded and that's before he crawls in there with them, where he'll mostly hog the covers.