The context that Nashville wonderkind William Tyler places his complex and sprawling compositions in is very minimal. He exerts himself in all of the places that he chooses, flushes out this here and smokes out that there, but he leaves almost everything to the listener's imagination, as he regales him or her with his looped scenery. It's spacious and dense, but it's so finely crafted and refined in a way that makes it very specific. He has very particular thoughts and emotions that he's trying to get across with all of these brilliant washes and flourishes. They are exact and still, they are open-ended. They are hypothetical, but they're fetching and demanding. They are very real extensions of precise feelings and specific moments that cannot just be fudged in. These are runaway stories that become folklore somewhere between his brain and those wildly picking, acrylic-nailed fingers of his. He takes his processing and storytelling powers to their peaks, walking around those snow caps, ready to plant his flag down when he knows he's gone somewhere new - some place where his tracks are the only ones that can be seen going up or coming down.