Dazed by a half-sleep, I find myself searching for distant worlds, primitive energies, ancestral sounds. Did Rimbaud's pen paint cities and people not of this earth? Hassell's trumpet can do it too; I cling to it like the most miserable of castaways; it will take me, a drunken boat drifting, into a jungle of dreams... Or rather, a dream jungle.
Cold anthropology and arcane metaphysics fused in a miraculous balance. Muggy electronics overheating aboriginal percussion; magical rites meticulously calibrated that celebrate the mysteries of Nature.
Hassell's omniscient trumpet slithers thick and discreet, muttering and muffled. It settles on the Whole, impregnating it with its scent; spirals of smoke exhaled deeply. It recreates the Whole by reshaping its colors; lead smoke dissolving the contours of things, blending them together.
And then you will see tigers and plants, stones and rivers, undergrowth and flowers, aborigines and howling monkeys; you will see them for what they truly are. Colors forming a painting, notes composing a symphony, years narrating a life.
Hassell like Fahey, alchemists of sound who have found the philosopher's stone; visible reality transforms into Reality.
The listener of this masterpiece by the fourth world trumpeter Jon Hassel, atop an ebony canoe, a silent Malaysian slowly leads us down a river in the sweltering equatorial forest.
One last dive into the crystal-clear water, farewell silent Malaysian ferryman, farewell distant artificial world, I rejoin my family, I found my home today.