Drombeg
Earthworks

They are postcards, three-dimensional postcards that smell of the environment, rocks, and snow-capped peaks.

Slides come to life, beat the cold to the rhythm of a heart. White warmed by nature, warm piano notes, minimal chirps. Let's go under the snow. Strings, children of an Arvo Part without melody, warm us under the snow. Warm snow, born of desires, loves, dreams.

Then comes grandma. Strings and notes of cords. We are home, homely melodies, mom sings us an invented melody on her lips.

A floral slip embraces me, whispers a floral lullaby to me.

I see landscapes outside the window, landscapes that smell of workers in the cold. They smell of broth. They smell of life.

Sound reconstructions of old yellowed postcards. Landscapes bathed in piano notes and the noises of thoughts, but thoughts are not silent, they rumble in your head.

This is a Malavoglia record. Sound of escaping waves, lingering thoughts, shadows, boats in the shadow you wish to lose.

You listen in your soul to the sound of waters, sweet, consoling environments. Violas create unease, on piano notes that console, and the final melody is a flight of your agitated self, faces whisper messages to you.

The end, but for an end, there is a beginning. Roaring violas in crescendo, a whisper, the sea.

The Sea

The End