![Who’s Keeping Time? - Alela Diane [CD]](/images/goldendiscshub.shop/images/product/alela-diane-whos-keeping-time-pre-order-cd-1.jpg)
Who’s Keeping Time? - Alela Diane [CD]
In circles and ever changing, “Who’s Keeping Time?” is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cosy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly coloured rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
Who’s Keeping Time? - Alela Diane [CD]
In circles and ever changing, “Who’s Keeping Time?” is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cosy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly coloured rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
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In circles and ever changing, “Who’s Keeping Time?” is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cosy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly coloured rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
