In the Park Manically Enchants with Gruesome, Erotic Brevity

“I think that I died as a child,” muses Edgar Oliver. “Some part of me stopped. But some part of me kept going. I keep on wandering.” As with his previous solo work, In the Park relies heavily on Oliver’s unsettling persona, marked by his inimitable diction, a lilting mélange of Savannah gentleman, queer epicurean, and Euro-ghoul. What makes this Walser-esque daisy chain of pastoral vignettes cohere is Oliver’s perverse enthusiasm: the genuine ecstasy he takes in forbidden or gruesome scenarios, and in glorifying his alienation not just from society, but from his own identity.