I didn’t expect an album that sounded like this to be about death. Or maybe I did, but not death in the literal sense, more like the slow kind: the erasures, the hauntings, the versions of yourself that keep showing up even after you’ve tried to let them go. Chameleon doesn’t announce itself as a confessional record, but it unravels like one.
What does it mean to be the ghost? The bishop? The reflection that won’t hold?
Seven months after its release, I spent some time with Trauma Ray and this is what it looked like.
