odradek

Supersoul, it's true that I haven't listened to Brilliant Trees in years (but I do remember it quite well), and re-listening to the two pieces you mentioned, I struggle to find similarities... yes, okay, the trumpet "in the style of Isham," but other than that... I agree, though, that there is a feeling of "delay" in their timing and a bit of naivety; in short, nothing really new. However, I think it also depends on the fact that they are transitioning their music from one "genre" to another. Listening again, I would indeed revise the score by half a point, but overall, the album has its value. Honestly, I expected worse.

The poor thing has been mistreated, and he's lamenting publicly. So he offers us his witty version. Oooh, what great fun indeed. If only I had read the whole thing, this page, I would have certainly been overwhelmed by the brilliance. Unfortunately, the beginning revealed the nature of the little genius in disguise, and frankly, that's enough for today. Finding a girl and taking a walk by the sea? Good idea, go find one.

And you haven't even read the manual of fantastic zoology, drafted, believe it or not, by Borges himself. But will you get one right, at least one, in your ramblings? What's left of your feet, after all the blows you inflict on yourself with the hoe? And why do you insist, hopelessly, increasingly agitated, increasingly painfully vulgar? Be kind to yourself, quiet down. And cleanse yourself of all that frothy rage, it's not a pretty sight. Come on, behave, gather yourself together. See you, great lady.

Oh, you reveal yourself in all your splendor, little one. Loud and delightful, a true lady. Darling, what Borges spoke of was not arrogance at all, it was greatness. Arrogance is fitting for a creature that babbles about "background, culture," that screams and writhes, and has never read Kafka's stories. But arrogance is just one of the many qualities of such a lovely creature: the terms you use to describe your poor interlocutor seem to indicate where the core of your high and enlightening thoughts resides. I retract my basin without hesitation, I fear infections. Wash yourself.

David Sylvian?

I don’t, dear Padella, find you amusing at all. Besides being superficial, presumptuous, and frankly boring, you come across as rather silly, given the tone and substance of your posts following the publication of your little page in a space open to comments. It’s therefore a waste of time, where one could avoid the already poorly invested effort of reading you and expressing thoughts regarding your “brilliant” critical exercise (that’s how it works, you know, dear; one writes and others comment; they should have warned you, too focused on your powerful text). I thus lift the pan off the fire; there’s a smell of burnt food, the dish is now inedible, and it will end up in the trash. And have fun, genius.

Janet, darling, I doubt everything. But I do not suffer from delusions (neither paranoid nor of persecution, from which others, on this very page, seem to be afflicted). Therefore, it was merely a simple acknowledgment of your exquisite intervention, directed at a crowd of which I am a part, at least in this incorporeal space. But tell me, rather, regarding doubts; what drives your confidence? What background do you possess, dear interlocutor? Speaking of doubt, in case your luggage happens to be devoid of it, I remind you of the definition given by an old blind Argentine, less dogmatic than you but, I fear, more authoritative: doubt, one of the names of intelligence. - To return to the subject of your strenuous defenses, I must point out, since it seems you have not noticed, that I have expressed my opinion on the young man’s little page without triviality. If you were bold enough to express yourself about it instead of rambling on with that pretentious tone, perhaps I might even consider your words. For now, I renew the kiss, as you seem a bit agitated.

Greetings to your lords. Ramona speaks well (the oud is that, at least at first glance: after all, it is an "Arab" version of the lute) Fahey, and also Robbie Basho (God rest his soul), are names quite fitting for the type. These are not things I have listened to much, so it may be that the surprise has generated an excess of goodwill. But it remains, for me, a lovely record, simple and complex at the same time. Kisses

Well, I don’t know the album and I won’t express myself on that, but since the page seizes the opportunity for broader considerations, I feel I can say that once again the premises steer the discussion, but they rely on data that I find quite unconvincing. I remember hearing Lanois for the first time as a musician and producer on the Martha and The Muffins album in the early '80s. An excellent musician and a producer who was already demonstrating his unique qualities. And if the role of producer has become predominant, I don't see why the excellent nature of the musician should be overlooked: his "Acadie" showed how both roles could coexist splendidly. If the "problem" is the "detachment," well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a false problem: how much rubbish enjoys too much fortune due to a supposed "expressive urgency," with an emphasized and redundant pathos. Mastery, class, and detachment are all welcome when they are present. The blessed detachment.

To dear Janet, who with the same tones prescribes the inadequacy of others' minds, I permit myself to send a kiss. The excess of enlightened intelligence is not a risk I run, and I hope it does not produce devastating effects in her, as sometimes happens to geniuses.