Chroma Key
Dead Air for Radios

THE REVIEW

My God Kevin, was it really necessary to screw everything up, like that? You had everything, everything. The hyperuranium on earth, an almost surreal form of para-perfection, you, your keyboard, your humanist-romantic vein.

She, she is "everything". She amplifies the assonance between "muse" and "music", makes "lo" love feminine, sometimes dismantles, sometimes reassembles. Do you really think I care about the rest? I am unable to not care. I can't do it. "I'll never be open again". "I could never be open again". I imagined, traveled, finally discovered a new essence of reality; I see things from another perspective. Call it fictitious, do as you please, it doesn't matter: as that old oriental sage used to say, it takes a lifetime to understand that in life, it's not necessary to understand everything; so let it be for existence on the page, and farewell to everyone. Distant, but - finally - clear.

Kevin Moore, the individual who left, without any warning, Dream Theater - whether liked or not, at the peak of their sonic and expressive maturity, at the height of their success - to withdraw alone in Costa Rica, to host a radio show for a local station. In the meantime, time for a road trip from California to New Mexico, just to inspire (and be inspired for) this work. Isolated from the world, from the public, from her. Yes, almost forgot about her. Cross and delight. Muse and music. Muse is music. And if what happens in real life, there's always the possibility of modulating style and attitude towards distant shores, fleeing to far galaxies, where the will to forget and the passion to discover find coincidence.

Art is love, they influence each other in parallel, on parallel tracks. Nothing will be the same as before. Like something that lies deep, it slowly emerges, almost whispering "what you see is just a tiny part, a damn tiny part, I wish to scream, yell, shout...", but - with some effort - I rationalize, driven by a trusted muse into a fiery lake, where I can burn slowly, to gain awareness, and strength, and expiate the beast that inside enjoys devouring everything, to its unquestionable satisfaction and consumption.

Sometimes one reaches a turning point. And if pain is learning (pathei-mathos), it can be dealt with fairly, some bruises okay, some fractures perhaps. But bones grow back quickly, and stronger, and even if no one will erase the trauma, even if you'll carry the marks with you, "even the waves won't carry (you) away". Not even the waves.

I will sing it to the world. To my world. Go to hell Mary, I'm going to Mexico, and who knows, maybe I'll perish, or maybe I'll learn to fly. I'm putting myself back in the game, whatever it may be, it's necessary. In the dark, alone, abandoned both to and by myself, clinging to that subtle foreboding twilight, foreboding of a glimmer of dim light, and at the same time blinding.

But I'm not afraid anymore. Nothing is unknown to the man who takes risks. To see more clearly, to access an "other" vision, it will suffice... to close your eyes.