•
Rating: We are living in a simulated world, (and we are simulated girls)
We are immaterial girls.
...Immaterial.
Metropolis in smoke.
Sunsets marked by the tears of angels.
The simulation continued relentlessly, the Show Must Go On, time was, after all, relentless, an escalator at the hypermarket that gluttonously swallowed a bit of everything, from thirteen-year-olds in hot pants to the shuffling troops, heels and toes spread open like bunches of asparagus, from the bodybuilder plague-spreader in a tank top to the Japanese couple in photographic gore. Always and constantly, automaticity extinguishes every microsecond of reflection, that escalator is, in fact, not moved by brain waves but by a simple piston; it is the mono-expressive actor that moves the entire transmission.
He is the puppeteer.
Then there are these 4 girls from Los Angeles, or maybe 5, maybe there's even a guy, perhaps they should be counted better.
Who in this game without rhyme or reason, well, they don't want to play.
And everything starts from the chills and tremors, from those isolated notes of a Fender Rhodes in the initial California Mountain Shake, which, salvifically, pinches the flesh a moment before it becomes sausage. A touch of the more electrified and rhythmic Mazzy Star than usual, and many contaminations, continuous spillovers into garage improvisation & rock'n roll. Pollen of these young women who are splendid in proposing themselves as Cheerleaders for such a Julian Cope and his most colorful experimentalism of that space rock and psychedelic songwriting, faded traces scattered in the memory of albums with an intimate vision like Interpreter… It is not at all easy to be a Cheerleader for a guy who has himself portrayed bent over with a giant turtle shell on his back while arguing with a toy truck about major Ptolemaic Copernican systems...
As if all this could try to give Meaning to the disorder of the Cosmos...
Make my rainy day - Cause we're living in a material world
And I am a material girl
That brief and light breath of human existence is exposed as rarely by the dancing mimicry of the Death Valley Girls, that raising of the bar once again in that egocentric mission; bringing the listener to the center of their impetuous atmosphere, in that precarious balance and that roar immersed in the highest waves of San Diego Bay, because we all have powers... Magic Powers.
Conceived during a strange illness of the vocalist Bonnie Bloomgarden, under that magical aura of the cover and that polar temple on the moon, Islands in The Sky is a Babylonian feast raging in a swirling space-time delirium suspended between the mid-60s and 90s, a wild party where in the same song the Motown R&B style of the Supremes can find dissolves into the cold delay of Opal and unexpected reappearances on the Casa Ciccone dancefloor with that heel tapping rhythmically to Borderline.
Ah, Iggy Pop described them as a gift to the world...
Loading comments slowly
