In a plant store constructed to look like a jungle, in a neighborhood constructed to look like a metropolis, Erika M. Anderson dons fingerless gloves and tunes a borrowed acoustic to wade through the awkward terrain of a electric song gone acoustic. It is not without its efforts. EMA songs demand noise, a tape or a loop of feedback, an antagonistic crowd, a partially blown speaker. What we are faced with is an under grown nursery with a tame babble of afternoon traffic and a void.
Erika muscles through, finds a focus and delivers two songs meant for the clamor but transmitted through the green veneer of a Potemkin grove.