James Wallace makes a pilgrimage inward to his solo electric core. He sings the songs of the Naked Light over a warm, cacophonous hum of delta-style guitar picking and the occasional Rhodes piano, noisemakers, rotary phone receiver and analog drum machines. This arrangement carves more room for his earnest voice and bloodshot conviction like an angel on edge of the ninth cloud, caught murmuring dry statements about teleportation and the fate of the human race. The result is wider, the songs expanding in unexpected ways, stripped down, but larger than life. For a man that loves space as much as he does, it seems only right and natural to get out there alone.