People in the West blame weird moods on a string of things: the wind (those Santa Anas), the end (of the country), the moon (crescent is cursed), even the movies. But it doesn’t matter which is right/real, because the effect is the same, freaked souls in a trapped environment, lotuses floating on a lake littered with bodies. Topaz Rags is a new late night downer trio devoted to mapping these sour times and long goodbyes, and California Ash is their 2-sided elegy for the Golden State’s darkest ghosts, the rich hills full of fire, the day after the kool-aid. Back-alley bass lines plod under smoky piano shadows, drums stalk a straight line in a house with the power out, a trumpet mourns from a warped 78 spinning in the basement. Wasted, grey, DIY drug jazz lost somewhere between Bohren & Der Club Of Gore and some half-destroyed pre-digital Portishead demo. Gold-on-white pro-dubbed cassettes in spraypainted cases with doomed hippie chick portrait cover photo and bedecked with a hand-cut shred of neon palm tree fabric. Edition of 100.