Carl Stone
Mom's

The father of a friend of mine, to make his young children eat a new dish, would only have the plate with that food brought to him, while the others received the usual "mush," and he would start eating in silence. Then the uninformed side would start with the "why": what are you eating, dad? Aren't you eating what we're eating? And why? And the father would say: this is not for you, you wouldn't like it... And that would open the floodgates, as the children would compete to taste it first. That's how my friend, since childhood, would eat everything without feeling uncomfortable with culinary whims. Today, with this album I propose, I'd like to do the same as that parent: this music is not for you. Listen to the aseptic novelties masked in the eccentricity of the new millennium; reheat in the pan the lunchtime originality pasta, which are nothing but recycled, overcooked dishes; endorse avant-garde forces that have nothing noble about them except the debts on past experiments, which, like this, are based on intense psyche, forget about the enticing atmospheres.

The support here is denied, or rather not considered, because it is felt that to truly play, a counterpart is not needed. Duality erased, the egg of Columbus. In capturing the atemporal moment, the illusion of marking time is lost. The stretches of the pieces, following one another with astral frames of different intensity of frequency, dance on an intersection where things are given no function.

The deceptive ambient reverb of the first track (Banteay Srey) is disintegrated by the reiteration of an eternal return of a non-existent chorus, provoking anguish and suffocation for those squeamish about finding unfamiliar food on their plate and rejecting it, in the insecurity of fearing a thing that challenges the "certainties" of those who live on bread alone. Conversely, it sparks heavenly delight for those who always have before them a gourmet course of refined tastes gained from frequenting magnetic "delicatessens." Digestion changes depending on how ready you are for the unexpected.

Unlabelable by any concept misleadingly acquired through an education restricting openings to alternative visions that can create a connection with the divine, the album states, in its acknowledgement of eternity, to unravel a concrete bliss without consolatory frills.

Free from psychological residues and the heaviness of genealogical trees, it absents itself from the believable context with an impersonal ablution. In the baptismal trough drown the residues of our monotheism misleading parallel visions, cirrus clouds of truth erase boulders of lies, "the faults are not in us."

Violently compassionate, listening evolves by not proposing itself and settling in an unclassifiable evanescence because it is always in becoming, creating a shield against a deceitful inquisitorial education, deconstructing the securities and guilt instilled in us by induced thoughts, the psyche is not overshadowed but radiates clarity.

And with the other pieces, the approach changes but the substance does not. Real scenarios around us are mystified with sound and act significantly, where, if one is conscious, one lets oneself be crossed by that invisible world that surrounds us and about which we know nothing.

Madly coherent with nothingness, the bounces and rolls in the second track, "Mom's," are adorned by a burlesque procession of "sounds of life" sparking a chilling cheerfulness, hypothesizing South Seas beaches of our desert island.

In "Gadberry's," garlands of flowers float in abandoned pools, but there's also the evening party on the shore, all together around the bonfire. In front of us, the dark sea as behind the dark vegetation. We meet millenary friends and laugh at our discomfort when we provoke our invisibility in front of others. The atmosphere is sparkling. We jump over the pyre that burns our non-existences.

"Shing Kee" launches us back into the ocean of "we are still here," where that starting over always trains us to more and more presence in the gym of life, comforting us, for one day maybe, to an existential change where we will replace our biological vehicle with who knows what, whoever lives will see. Fifteen minutes that seem never-ending, and they don't end.

The otherworldly stimulation completes with the last suite, "Chao Nue," which makes you forget the gravitational force that keeps you anchored with its vices to the ground floor, and without even realizing it, gives you a gratifying astral experience in its nebulosity. It then evolves into imploded clangor where reverberations of future hallucinations prepare a road that has nothing to do with the shadow of the light we considered reality. The Odyssey repeats in drowning the intentions of being there.

After listening, I find myself skinned, clean, essential... An alien sacrality envelops me: I Am Here!

Carl Stone intervenes by intersecting universes through the sounds around him and that, like a hieroglyph, take off tangentially to translate them into essence, into nourishment for our soul, into an Esperanto language that resolves internal misunderstandings and grows awareness of unity. The ascent is arduous but without the sweat of the brow, the results for self-knowledge will equal the conscious work placed on the table. Revelations do not necessarily turn out sweet.

Cruel in its psychic impact, Carl Stone presents a dish with a taste all to be discovered. There is no ego, there is no inner dialogue, the crystalline sound flow grants no banks, the precipitation is a consequence of absence, the wink of talent is burned off like a wart by a liquid nitrogen that freezes even mystical egoic exaltations. It gives you the A to put aside an obscene change in the approach to reality, indirectly suggesting that "everything must be restarted differently."

Suffering and pain are absent in this achievement of a dimension that does not nourish whispering vampires. There is a light, to which we are not accustomed, that regenerates thirst for gnosis towards the absolute. As the ancient of the ancient shines through, at the same time, becoming is present: everything sparkles in the immediate. In an uncontaminated faith, we recognize ourselves in our inner God.

There is hedonism that does not infect with materialistic friction the sacred fire of a transcendental motivation for a push towards the Leap. And the Leap is always made with closed eyes. Let's forget the Doubting Thomas in us...