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Like Palomar observing the world. Like this curious little man to whom Italo Calvino has given the urge to look at things. Like him in front of the sea. On the shore. Observing a wave that unrolls and wraps up until it reaches the edge. The waves are those of “The Campfire Headphase.” The third sea generated by the Sandison brothers. At first glance, the most accessible one. Calm on the surface. Lunar like the others. Permeated by a lively breeze of guitar. By soft bass lines. By gyroscopes of rhythmic patterns. By colorful glitch textures.
A sea to observe multiple times. Because the image that remains is never the same. After each wave retracts. Bubbles remain that pop. Remote resonances of the Great Wave. Passed by everyone. Even those who still dream of riding it. Resonances of the Wednesday’s Leones. Of the Happy Days and the Lost Weekends. Of the Summers of Love. Everything. Finished. In bubbles. That pop. And what remains of the Wave gathered in white is just foam. Mixed with chemicals and other things. Foam on tongues of sand. In Malibu. In Brighton. In Ibiza.
On the beach of this third great sea. There are waves that evoke nostalgia for a retrofuture. At least three are worth the journey. The one called Chromakey Dreamcoat. To be seen with filtered glasses. Because the reflection of the '70s dazzles thanks to the narcotic loop of guitar, synth, and percussion. The atmospheric Slow This Bird Down where time freezes and the melody implodes into multiple neutrinos of supernovae. And Dayvan Cowboy which appears like a vast abrasive lagoon. Then it transforms into floating whirlpools in six orbits. Finally, it becomes a liquid vortex waiting for a dive.
Palomar merely watches. Remaining in comparison with the other two seas and those already seen on this continent. Grateful for this third sea. Sublime. He raises his gaze to the sky. With the even stronger conviction that the universe is the mirror in which we can contemplate only what we have learned to know in ourselves.
Wave after wave.
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