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Rating: Moth.
Gracefully swirls in my room drawing paths of voluptuous shapes, hidden desire and primal instinct.
So little is left to total abandonment.
I struggle to hold onto the serene silence I've imposed on myself.
I realize the night is still so long. The streets, deserted.
Few words.
The televisions are silent.
I decide.
I stop the clocks.
I must answer my pleonastic questions; too much time has passed since the genesis.
Is it possible to give voice to an instrument? To transform the arachnid movement of a hand into art?
To make it an integral part of one's self, a symbiotic specimen of one's abilities?
Yes.
I have no doubt.
Gently, I cut the silence with what I define as the music of the Gods.
The notes flow quickly like dance steps, leaving intense scents in the air. Everything is so tangible. Real. Sensorial.
“Friday Night In San Francisco”
Acoustic perfection enclosed in a unicum of genius, passion, talent.
The stylistic triad seems to merge to give life to a compact, sublime sound.
Al Di Meola. John McLaughlin. Paco De Lucia.
Nothing seems out of place, in a lucid calibration of instinct.
The guitars find their voice and compose poems, paint images in fire on a white wet canvas, tuning Spanish melodies. Sun and desert, caravans. The association of ideas is too strong; observing music is what I have always desired.
Melodic flamenco and Bossa Nova rhythm.
Blues solos.
Soundboxes assaulted by greedy, stealthy hands.
Feet that tap time, draw geometries.
You feel like you're being followed.
But now there's nothing outside anymore, it's just me and the music.
Tracklist
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