Isis
Mosquito Control

This is an ambiguous note about the Isis, from what the band's moniker will arise, will it perhaps be the acronym of an Aircraft, a car, a comic book character, a piece of hardware from industrial data processing machines, something that concerns UNESCO, will it be a scientific organization, the name of a lunar crater, a satellite, a newspaper, the latest technological evolution in naval recovery from nuclear armament projects boycotted at the end of the last world wars, the name of a hurricane, a puzzle?

I've spent entire months, sleepless nights, searching for the enigma that so afflicts my feeble mind.

I furiously punched the walls of my room, then decided to color them with a sky crowded with stars, smashed glass from the frames, installed and paved with an English lawn on which to rest, some may think, sleeping outside on the balcony, hell no?!

Instead, I wanted more, the cool breeze of a sky black as pitch pierced by stellar rays did not light up the soul of this world...

From my promontory, more than 70 meters high, made of concrete and English lawns ad libitum, designated as a takeoff/landing control station, I continued to observe, your mother in her underwear, microcosm of a city wrapped in the cold lights of a night that does not want to end, but I was never able to reflect myself under the reminiscences of a past life, absorbed in the acrid scent of post Hardcore whose metropolitan solitude is matched only by that of the soul in September, I observed, observed, observed, observed, observed... and screamed...

Under the ethereal lights of a street lighting pole, I glimpsed a faceless nun, white as the moon, writhing as if wrapped by a strange ancestral and wild fire, strange dances, liturgical rituals, of a world whose indeterminate distances leave one petrified.

She kept approaching; that being, she kept approaching, thus the entire square where the mad vision was occurring suddenly hosted a strange individual... suddenly that old man, observed, observed, observed, observed...
He beat, pacing his cane to relentless, cacophonic, discordant rhythms, aiming to paint "that night that never wants to end," with distorted notes.

Notes whose propagation was directed towards the schizophrenias of a mind now exhausted from constantly wondering why the Isis were called that.

Winds maddened by dissonant guitars, far from their usual post-rock scents we remember so much today (tell me whose èèèèèèèèè???!!!!!!! tell me whose èèèèèèèèèè???!!!!!!!) began to alter the stability of my promontory, within sound walls whose fissures are on par with the most insidious and fierce beast, whose venom intoxicates like the most paroxysmal and superhuman madness, without limits, insatiable exalting its ancestral passions.   

But the supreme goddess watched, Isis black madonna, of a very uncertain destiny, daughter of the stars, woman of in-between, between myth and reality, whose descents find reminiscence in a perceptive space, whose culture inevitably reaches us, propagating within a Judaic cult, to arrive at our nights, filled with stars, empty inside and existential voids...

Imagine the next review where I will ask why the Isis play this way...

tell me whose èèèèèèèèèè???!!!!!!! tell me whose èèèèèèèèèè???!!!!!!!
tell me WHOooooooooooooooooUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHhhHH!!!!!!!!