Lycia is the gothic-electronic project of American guitarist Micheal Van Portfleet.
Constructed in a balance between the expanses of cosmic Kraut couriers like Klaus Schulze and Tangerine Dream and the funereal percussiveness of Swans' Children Of God, this third album is dated 1993.
Its music comes from much further away, distant in time and space.
It rises from the Middle Ages, emerging from the misty and desolate moors of Eastern Europe, echoing through the centuries from the damp and empty cellars of a Transylvanian castle, across oceans and continents, reaching us, gothic and ancestral, to tell us millennial stories of love and death.
Weary drumbeats struggle slowly and heavily, laden with the dust of time that each beat raises in the gray and smoky atmosphere, the guitar weeps, swirling suspended and rarefied in the air, among withered and bare trees, while the keyboards, like agonizing dragonflies in a web, exhale their last breaths and a voice wanders through the deserted rainy plains, cold and prophetic.
Yes, this music comes from afar, tormented and ancient, frozen at dusk and plunged into a painful oblivion that grips its soul and does not grant it the pleasure of death.
A Day In The Stark Corner is the symphony of nothingness that slowly advances, the lament of a zombie tired of living, the desperate regret of a ghost towards a life that it sees passing by from afar but can no longer touch.
Decadent.
More than in fumes and darkness, widely evoked in the dark earth abyss of this album, today it seems to me to live Guernica as that face observing disfigured disasters scraping the bottom.
The slow and mechanical throb of programmed beats on the machines muddies the entire album with industrial slavery, which in its flow ultimately gives the impression of being covered by the sticky web of a spider.