Jackson Scott has developed out of a weird audacity; bending spoons with apocalyptic melodies, sugared with solipsistic textures. How did the world conceive this young cosmonaut? A college dropout with a 4-track and a one-track mind. A listened and a conceiver. His voice, whether pitched up or androgynous, speaks of a still life. But painting is meaningless, songs irrelevant, aura outdated if you are a revivalist. Jackson is not.