Music is a fundamental part of my life.
The discovery of music is, for me, a continuous journey in an immense ocean with a fractal appearance, in search of new unexplored islands.
If I had been as curious about traveling and discovering new places as I have been in discovering new music, I would probably be in a galaxy light-years away from Earth today, who knows on which distant exoplanet.
Then it happens that I discover a "diversamente rapper" (differently rapper) Italian artist (Venerus) and thanks to him and a video on YouTube, I discover a French composer originally from Martinique, Christophe Chassol, and soon I'm at sea again...
And so, you can suddenly find yourself on an unknown, uninhabited island.
Then you find something abandoned, a box with a monstrous face on the lid.
As you are about to open it, a female voice that you can't tell where it's coming from, like a hostess inside a space capsule, says something you struggle to understand. It mentions an atomic bomb, then a moment of silence, and right after, a dog's barking, the chirping of some birds, and, from the same place the female voice came from, two distant notes and then a sequence of analog tones resembling those of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, mimicking the song of one of those birds.
A sweet Morriconian waltz on the piano, or even better, with the taste of post-depressive crisis Brian Wilson's Beach Boys, follows in what you discover to be a recording left by someone who was on that place before you, a castaway from who knows where. You listen and first find his narrating voice on the soundtrack of a documentary about the nature of the island.
A sweet and melodic whistling to call the birds that populate it (Pipothornology pt. I).
Then a definite and engaging samba always driven by the rhythm of that whistle, perhaps chasing those same birds now flying away in front of you (Pipothornology pt.II).
The story changes, maybe it's night, thoughts go back in time, before arriving on the island.
Nostalgia is an ugly beast,
The musical narration (Mario pt. II) has something of the most melancholic, cinematic Ravel.
Day again, the atmosphere changes again, always far from the island, the diary of all the places visited, of the people whose words his music has colored.
Again the castaway talks and talks, and piano notes with a synthetic aftertaste dance and mark the rhythm of every single word and a samba (Organe phonatoire), but the creative chaos, made of voices and sounds, reigns increasingly supreme.
And you are there, with the constant background of the sea waves periodically lapping the island and soaking the last notes of every single tale.
Two people discussing introduce something (Bwa brile) that seems made of the same saudade of certain Brazilian music, before picking up rhythm.
Then again a wild percussive samba (Carnaval pt. II), a deafening, primitive noise.
Occasionally, the voice of the castaway returns, enters the stories he tells, and sings over them.
Electronic sounds, acoustic sounds, sudden, exhausting rhythmic bursts.
In the end, I return home, exhausted, just a moment before the island disappears. I look at it from afar, Solaris set to samba rhythm within an atomic explosion I will never witness.
I don't know if the order of the experiences was exactly this.
Did I dream, or was it all real?
P.S.
Could there be anything more hallucinatory than Big Sun, the album? Yes, Big Sun, the film...
Tracklist
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