In Calendar Days, jangly guitars usher the waves of overlapping melodies in the most politely unrelenting pop.
There is here a great raiding with reluctance. Somehow it is all done productively, without mercy, and within the interlocking melodies.
The narration seems almost to take place from an out of body experience, or at least some interval removed from the recollected proceedings.
The tone feels detached and emotionally well processed. The events are still close enough to recount in detail, but there has been a coming to terms.
It is hard to imagine more potent nostalghia outside of Tarkovsky pulling you by the lapels through the mirror. What a fine tribute to an era and stretch of consciousness.