Jacco Gardner
Hypnophobia

Do you have majestic Albatross wings tangled in the sandy meshes of your Hippocampus?

Milan was rainier than usual, but the street was crowded with faces in osmosis, all that gray flannel covered the city.

Then suddenly I got off the Metro, I was so crumpled that sometimes it takes very little to feel free and then... I saw Her.

The Piazza by the Duomo was a whole celebration, shouting all around with medieval tournaments and real tennis under the arcades.

Then she crossed the road, slender and tall like a mourning queen.

Raising that long dress to keep it from getting wet, adorned with rough stones and trimmings, light and of sculptural grace, in the blue of her eyes was that sky that announced hurricanes, sweetness that enchants, pleasure that torments. After that last flash, the curtain of night fell in an instant, in the darkness of silence our gazes met for an eternal moment. And so, Fleeting Beauty, tell me I will not see you again before the eternal shore...

The appointment with that distant but parallel identity is in the afternoon, located between those polar and trembling coordinates of Hypnophobia, the second album by the musical wizard and alchemist Jacco Gardner. A blind date and millennial dating following the trail of those timid steps on stones in the water without falling, and of magical balance in that Paisley vortex. Exit strategy untethered from time and place, like a timeless island east or west of those sandy meshes in the Hippocampus. Falling in love with a Wurlitzer piano and its sensual movements, surreptitiously observing that seductive otherness from the corners of a mirror, far and wide. Sneaking into the next apartment to admire it silently in secret at night from the glass window. Trapped in the crystal notes trap of Before The Dawn, feeling part of a cosmic and irregular design, like an ageless molecule passing through bodies and religions...a sidereal float between the dunes of Mizar, Hawkind revisited 2.0 and this is a dream, this is reality…

Grounding desires and carnality, becoming the essence and smoke of sparks from the sparkling notes of the furious harpsichord of Hypnophobia, the only contemporary heir of Curt Boettcher among soft pop tombs, infinite chords in C minor, slow as the oscillation of a satellite, slow as the slow motion spinning in the night of two flaming halberds, overshadowed by the morrisian trance reverie, a lucid journey on highways without a destination and at the rest stop suddenly that immaculate dream of The Doors at the terminus. Welcome among these brambles, among these sweet thorns, among these ageless sound enigmas.