Madrugada
Madrugada

It's one of those days that seem never-ending. The rain pounds incessantly against the windshield, and the wipers scrape at my senses with their monotonous and nerve-wracking sway. The last whispers of the day have long gone, and I, boxed in like a sardine among these four metal sheets, seek the usual and only way to overcome the annoyance of driving. I'm no longer used to doing it for many hours (driving, and what were you thinking??). Or maybe I never got used to it.

I fish in the dark depths of the glove compartment and pull out a CD with more scratches than Max Mosley in the midst of his perverse erotic games. As I bring the car back into the right lane, I glance at the title before inserting it into the player. Madrugada. Hopefully, I won't have to wait for dawn before returning to my cozy nest.

It's been a while since the last listen (voice-over: well no wonder, otherwise it wouldn't have ended up at the bottom of the pile!), but I remember that since the good old days of industrial silence, the Norwegian combo hasn't evoked certain feelings in me. A newfound inspiration? Or perhaps it's the misty and creeping melancholy that runs through this record? The truth is I've always been fascinated by their underground and decadent sound, the wooden reverberations, the usual handful of acid chords subdued to the powerful and deep timbre of Sivert Høyem. It's the redeemed soul of Nick Cave hand in hand with the ghost of Ian Curtis. And it certainly isn't the most suitable music for a late-night journey in the middle of a downpour. Because it spreads malevolently in the ether and creeps into your head like a psychotropic substance. It captivates you.

Now even that background noise from the wipers seems to keep the beat. Before me, uncertain horizons and the intermittent play of lights that appear and disappear in an indefinite time. The rearview mirror distances indistinct figures while the notes glide away through restless ballads with a retro flavor and dark tribal dances tinged with blues.     
These are the last for Robert Burås, who leaves this strange world embraced by his guitar.

End of the journey. Look away Lucifer.