Ersi Arvizu is a voice from the past. Not in the dust-and-mothballs fashion, but in that tugging, gooseflesh-raising way - something wholly familiar yet seductively un-pinpointable. Her voice is a trigger, prompting associations - shaggy avocado trees, a mother's perfume, resin, gym sweat or black-top-tar. All of it's there in its worn grooves, its pitched valleys. Line-by-line, verse-by-verse, it's a voice that threads you back to something thought completely faded: a wood-frame house with a long-driveway, a party in motion, a moment - a lost feeling - somehow intact, frozen in time.

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