Magic Castles
Dreams Of Dreams Of Dreams

You are drawn to fragile loves, those that dissolve like spinning petals in the wind, you are drawn to the shadows that flutter before you and sometimes even dare to darken radiant and dedicated figures. Shadows that, at times, kindly drop you disheveled and nauseating droppings on your classic outfit—and with such grace. Sometimes you feel inside those stormy waves of the sea and such unsettled skies. Listening to The Ones We Love may then slip off the mask of the day from your face with a cunning trick, revealing you first and foremost to yourself, reminding you of memories that are not your own, and just how much more we can be useful to ourselves...We are Stardust, we are Golden... Like leaves, so are men; man is truly great precisely because he is ephemeral. Like leaves, he is born, he lives, he falls. But in the brief time granted to him, he can accomplish immortal deeds; that fleeting moment is the measure of eternal glory. And the greatness of Jason Edmonds, the band's leader, lies in describing that moment of the process—the time as a fading echo, the wandering brightness of sunset in this smoky epilogue where time becomes destiny, poetry, and a mirror of the soul.

The album, released in 2009 and self-produced, is composed of 15 tracks that move between dream pop, shoegaze, and vintage psychedelia. The lyrics, written by Jason Edmonds, do not follow a linear narrative but unfold as fragments of a dream, fleeting impressions, and poetic visions. Within that poetics, hidden—as if inside a dusty, golden chest—lie perhaps great and eternal secrets; it is not for us to reveal illicit contents here, but still it does not explain why, in the heart of the night, my kitten Bizet always leaps onto my bed, fascinated and trembling, during a listening of Silver Moonlight Golden Thread.

You are drawn to fragile loves, true, then only for you it is the time to be carried away by the tempting libeccio of Big Sur; memory is a circle that never closes, like an umbrella that has broken just as it has stopped raining... it is what remains of love. Montale shattered it into images. It is a dream that repeats, but never the same. An echo that never ceases to resound, like the one envisioned by Edmonds. Like this album that never stops spinning, in the night, in your mind, in the dark, empty, unadorned room yet cradle of dreams. Even in the darkness, in the Dream, we are always both two and alone—light and shadow, reason and instinct. Two minds, one soul, under the sign of Gemini we are mirror and conflict. You’ll Have It When It’s Gone : and then Time can also stop, can also be circular and mysterious; only when something ends do we understand its Value, time is what slips away as we live it, and to avoid feeling that horrible burden of time you must get drunk without respite, without Mercy. Of wine, poetry, women, and virtue: as you please. But get drunk. But Time is not only the destroyer, it is also the gentle therapist, like a silent ally, working in the shadows, in the strength of waiting—yes, sometimes even a waiting room, but have courage.

Silver Moonlight, Golden Thread: The silver lunar light, as we were saying, the golden thread, and the Moyen Age that stealthily, in freak mode, steps over Alexa’s perimeter and passes beyond the living room threshold, crossing—screened and mind elsewhere—jingles, cackles, and algorithms. The song will move slowly, I’ll warn you, because it’s a bit of a child of Belladonna and Popol Vuh and acts this way with everyone, like a night ritual, with reverberating guitars and keyboards floating in unconsciousness—golden thread—is instead the archetype, Sssh, of the real and secret connection, among the ancient and semi-visible cracks of the Polis, but invisible among all things that have price and market: a diamond in perpetual oscillation between dream and reality, between past and present, between the self and the universe. Ariadne’s thread that leads through the labyrinth of existence. The silver moonlight is the reflected light of consciousness, faint but constant, illuminating the inner journey. Obscured by ever-stronger firewalls, yet never blind.

Everything was sky. There was no man, nor sun, nor moon. Only the heart of the sky.

A Magnificent Album—it takes upon itself all the Ancient Beauty and carries it, unfazed, among all the postmodern ruins.

Between Dream and Madness, like Herzog in Fitzcarraldo wanting to bring opera into the heart of the Amazon, defying logic and nature, like Dreams of Dreams, with this ancient sound that becomes a bridge between worlds, between civilization and jungle.

Between dream and madness.