Canaan
Contro.Luce

Visceral and mutual hatred towards the holidays.

Staying away from everything and everyone, phone off and headphones on. Taking a shower after a stop at the kebab place and lying on the bed, Lucky on the nightstand, wine within reach: emotions running uncontrolled. Feeling the need for that breeze that tears you apart, torments, that makes you sink into the abyss of inner distress. Lowering your eyelids, lightening up, and slowly realizing how the environment has become comfortable and anesthetizing, the right reward for continuous efforts towards something atypical and longed for. Hearing 'Contro.Luce' echo, its excruciating dust, and deeply breathing in that vivid sense of anguish it emits. Amplified suggestions. A bit of wine...

"When closing your eyes resembles dying a bit

When closing your eyes means vanishing

There must be a way to remove the thorns

There must be a way to extinguish the heart's pain

Without making it bleed'"

Familiar words, Italianness finally embraced. Present and past that bind indissolubly, announcing a tomorrow without light. An incessant rain that slowly resigns to the dark. A bug that rips through time, deteriorates, that tears existence and transforms the body into dark matter still with blood in the veins. A sensual soundtrack that makes no concessions, that leaves no way out. Conscious, clear laments. A rusted nail forcefully planted in the live flesh. A little more wine...

"Dirty at heart, false in truth

Light in the sky, white in black

Of a single thought left behind

Left in the middle of a single path"

Sublimation of abandonment. An attempt to make it necessary after knowing it in all its essence. The same path as the previous 'The Unsaid Words' and before that, 'A Calling to Weakness', two wonders of inestimable pain. And here...managing to do better. Ambient, Darkwave, electronic moans at the service of uncontaminated meditation. Twenty-one tracks between expansion and slowness, between filtered sounds, effects, Middle Eastern ethnic inserts, orchestrations, and experimentation; melodies that plant themselves in your head and grow, moment after moment, only to fully bloom, always inside, amidst shovels of suffering and dismay. The last sip of wine...

"Windows without bars

World without voice

Shadows without peace

Darkness backlit"

Guilty and hermetic, despotic and heart-wrenching. Soft, benevolent, at times imperceptible. Idyllic. A record that has the power to emphasize far beyond the humanly tolerable the nuances of sadness. After resigning to the 70 minutes of 'Contro.Luce' even hitting the lottery jackpot, even finding a permanent job seems like an incurable disaster. Dangerous stuff. Stuff that poisons the soul.

Getting up from the bed, drying the tears, emptying the ashtray, drawing back the curtains, and staring down... staring into the void. Avoiding at all costs to end it all.