Fripp & Eno
The Equatorial Stars

THE REVIEW

Inscrutable conditions persist in the complex human psyche that rarely find syllogisms capturable in words.
Conscious condition to whom?

Violent and paranoid in S. Kubrick's visions in Shining, apathetic and irreverent in D. Lynch's Eraserhead, psychedelic in some W. Herzog films.

Fripp and Eno, two inscrutable and complex minds, engaged in a minimalist-ambient-Art Rock project, revisited twenty years after the release of No Pussyfooting and Evening Star.

In apparent communicative constraints, is it the "non-said" in that communicative skepticism that hides and suffocates the immense human psyche? But to the few, it appears futuristic and dreamy.

It is the succession of those notes, initially as languid as they are euphonious, imbued with a faint sparkle, a preface to unintelligible intents, ready to shine on the mad diamond of madness from which to refract dissent to the limits of paranoia, a becoming deafening and cacophonous penetrated into inexhaustible musical environments where the tracks find echo in an existential continuum between matter and transcendence, soul and oblivion.

“The Equatorial Stars” is not just a simple musical project, but a pandeistic projection in the presence of everything and speculating on nothing, in the presence of nothing and speculating on truth.
The realization of a desecrating, ataraxic, inexorable, and atheistic truth, which has nothing to say, nothing to give, ready in its own unreasonable cyclicity to transform.

Doubt, conquered by fears, doubt unmasked by desires, doubt concealed by life, now struggles alienated in dimensions and in parallelisms that are not for us, yet indispensable to us and to our essence.

A cosmic and existential projection, that comes to mind, and then forgive me... who knows where we'll end up, in what places.
In which places does fear really exist? where there is nothing. Where nothing exists.
An apathetic inertia, an unrealizable state of calm that leads to madness.
A projection towards our fears, inherent in our karma, existential, profound to the point that they can only be atoned for... slowly.
Fears that dwell in the soul, have no smell, empty, intangible, faint, distant... apathetic.
They push forward in their politically correct obsessions, urgent anxieties contained but pulsating, buried and disowned by an alienated and secular civic condition.

The nothing, a paranoid void that throws you towards the conscious madness of an irreversible condition, much more than simple death, the nothing has no consciousness, has no image, the nothing has no beginning, the nothing has no end.
The nothing in all its apathy, cryptic and senseless.

Did you want a happy ending? But there is no happy ending, because everything is cyclical, everything transforms, everything is infinite, there is no beginning, there is no end... what a hoax!