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Rating: Hot summer, forced rest.
To you, smiling deserters of the army of Ideas.
Lost along roads and paths printed by steps following remote-controlled compasses.
It seems trivial, but sometimes all it takes is something soft, resurfaced from ancient caves or old dumpsters, the quintessence of the soul, lost and arrived to kick off that gentle revolution, that sweet overshadowing.
It doesn't really take much, to be honest.
Something delicate and pleasant, a transport with eyes closed into that world, always distant.
And blurred by dreams suspended mid-air and realities that flicker, even atop that whirl of mellotron, grains of ever-Floydian keyboards and shimmering guitars that embrace and carry away in a sparkling undertow.
Far away.
Paint a Picture is an album of enveloping madeleines in which to slowly lose oneself, a jolt of the heart shining like a multicolored diamond. A sophisticated version of Soft Prog, a concept only hinted at on the album cover but which crumbles into myriads of airy particles, a light sound that snubs the ground and its usual visitors, that rises upwards among fireflies and timid glimmers stolen from lunar embraces, among thousands of soap bubbles.
An extreme delicacy in the arrangements for a soft-evolving symphonic Prog on lines of Hammond and mellotron, following that trail of minor symphonic rock by artists like Barclay James Harvest and Cressida.
The formula is simple, take 100 good grams of Moody Blues, and wait, wait until the butter turns reddish. At that point, add grains of The Piper at the Gates of Dawn after sprinkling them well, then take any of the Gibb brothers, yes at random, and gently place a small red apple in his mouth and garnish his ears with sprigs of parsley, then lay it all on a sheet of wax paper sprinkling and mixing it all with the debut album of Spring and Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, sprinkling the internal cavities with aromas of Genesis & Yes primates, preferably taken from some isolated glacier in Tibet.
To be absolutely perfect... only in some tracks sprinkle everything with salt and pepper and flambé with some cognac.
To you, smiling deserters of the army of Ideas,
dinner is served.
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