There's a tangible separation between body and spirit, when Emily Jane White sings. There's no absence of either. As a matter of fact, it feels as if both are beefed up considerable. They're not just noticeable, but extremely hard to avoid. The experiences that these souls go through, within the span of the ten gorgeous and ethereal songs on the San Franciscan's new record, "Ode To Sentience," are those which make their spirits glow neon. Someone's injected a dye into their veins and the various things that make these people frightened, elated, depressed and alive are able to appear, out in the open, as throbbing testimonials. The people that meander out of White's writings are overcome with heaviness. They are walking slowly through their days and nights, trying not to fall off the face of the earth, trying not to tumble head-over-heels into a well, trying not to get sucked up into the engine - chewed up and spit out. The people are possessed and they've gone astray. They're caught up in a fog of their own doing and there's beating at it blindly instead of just letting their eyes adjust to the milkiness of their sight, of their reads. Some of the sentiments come from a feeling, as White sings, "The devil has made his round," but most of the general feeling can be traced right back to fragile hearts and shaky steps. Many folks seem to be making their ways down uncertain aisles, to walk into some black waters of unknowable depths. They're just going to solemnly step into them, not holding their breaths and just plunge themselves deep to see what the pressure does to them, to see how or if they're able to adjust. There's a sense that part of them will be down there, dealing with unlivable/dream-like/nightmarish conditions, while the rest of them is looking into the dark drink as if it were a television screen, seeing how it's all playing out, watching as the hands extend to pull legs and arms further down. It's a view to the clamor, to the frenzy of which there appears to be little stopping.