Asturias
Marching Grass on the Hill

"Divum Pater" 

One of the many versions of the Roman religious tradition tells that in ancient times, strictly governed by myth, Saturn, after being dethroned by his son Jupiter, was forced to take refuge on the unexplored Italian shores, where he was welcomed by a mysterious God, absent from the Greek pantheon but superior to all its celestial personalities, who answered to the name of Janus (Ianus), a two-faced being, the tutelary deity of beginnings (from which the first month of the year "January") and transitions ("ianuae" was indeed the term used to indicate doors). This very powerful yet moderate character granted hospitality to the deposed despot in exchange for his agricultural knowledge, which he was to transmit to the local people to make those lands fertile and productive. From that moment on, offering asylum to a fugitive and hiding him from the vengeful gaze of the gods, these lands would take the name Latium (Lazio, perhaps derived from the verb ‘làtere,’ meaning to hide).

The symbolism behind the two-faced appearance of the first of the so-called "indigetes" gods (original to the Latin area and not "imported" from pre-existing foreign cults) has a significant connection with the inevitable passage of time and is revealed more than ever in the custom (not always adopted) of representing Janus with two faces of profoundly different ages: the younger and idealized front side, to evoke the future and the clairvoyance of the deity, and the older, meditative rear side, to witness the rich experiences and lessons from the past to be treasured. The two temporal directions therefore coexist in the nature of the god, but never meet in a hypothetical present, because future events, even if perhaps foreseeable, become inexorably past when they occur, thus making it impossible for an intermediate face to exist that, acting as a dam, could fix the moment in a constant and unchanging present, holding back the tumultuous course of the river of events.

In music, and especially in the prog realm, we have numerous examples of authors who perfectly embody this dual polarity, proposing, in alternating phases, works of extremely divergent and incompatible styles; but quite another story tells the exploits of the few theorists who have boldly tried, not without numerous attempts, daring formulas, and inevitable missteps, to cross two extreme points of the same line, generating an uroboros in which the antipodes coexist in a fascinating yet unstable artistic balance. An exponent of this experimental process is to be found in the rather un-Roman features (just to stay on theme) of the oldfieldian-schooled Japanese Yoh Ohyama, who, after a purely electric approach dominated by keyboards ("Circle in the Forest" from '88 and "Brilliant Streams" from '90) and a small but much more recent fully acoustic interlude ("Bird Eyes View" from 2004), managed to merge the two souls of his musical identity (so different they are known by the names "Electric Asturias" and "Acoustic Asturias") into a dreamy union rich in warm bucolic nuances that does not disdain, when appropriate, the inclusion of determined but well-measured elements.

So is it "In Search of the Soul Trees" from 2008 that we will deal with here? Well... No. Although the artist’s various experiences have refined his sense of balance between modern compositional taste and love for classical and sophisticated sounds, the flip side of the coin of this hybrid record (following in the footsteps of "Cryptogram Illusion" from '93) still reveals a sometimes forced coexistence of components that occasionally clash in their cosmopolitan arrangement, possibly wishing for a more suitable environment to best express themselves. Let us then step back to 2006 and venture into the neo-classical labyrinths of the second creation of the so-called Acoustic Asturias, where some of the tracks from the previous LPs are reborn under a new light, resulting from a delicate amalgamation of guitar, piano, strings, and wind instruments: "Marching Grass on the Hill".

The thread of the album is crystallized in a constant and barely concealed melancholy, an impulse restrained by wisdom woven between the tormented songs of Tsutsui Kaori’s clarinet ("Wataridori"), supported at times by a moving piano ("Marching Grass on the Hill"), at other times by the vivid and brilliant rhythm of the guitar ("Waterfall"), then pouring onto the strings of Ito Kyoko’s violin, which impulsively radiates a bittersweet swirl of affection and remorse through its restless twirls, wrenching cries, and dark, passionate gothic dances ("Kami no Setsuri ni Idomu Mono Tachi", "Luminous Flower", "Bloodstained Roses"). The affliction of Kawagoe Yoshihiro’s piano finds solace in the pure vocals of Itoh Kanako ("Benikoh"), from which the clarinet also draws ("Woman of Ireland") after the meticulous and solemn restoration works, wanted by the leader Yoh’s guitar ("Rogus", "Adolescencia"), intended to seal this semi-acoustic masterpiece, weighed down only by a certain gravity, concentrated in a couple of rather peculiar episodes, with a distinctly conservative imprint, that perhaps would have flourished more luxuriantly in a slightly smaller pot ("Classic Medley", "Coral Reef").

Here ends a self-examination, almost a search for oneself resulting in a subdued struggle with one's own memories that, paradoxically, can only take place in the solitude and peace of introspection; the same hard-earned peace celebrated by the Romans in now lost times, by barring the two doors of the enigmatic temple of Janus, in the hope that the god would manage to keep it intact and guard it inside the building dedicated to him for as long as possible.