Magic Castles
Starflower

Never wake up in the middle of a dream. They say the more ambitious the soul is, the more dreams lead it away from the possible.

The ambition to live...or die within that exclusive frame, within that picture painted by our imagination, that Renaissance painting that resembles us...when we dream.

An endeavor to reclaim that Dream in Progress in our fleeting times, always rushing, bitten by time and breathless, while outside the conflict flares up, the latest in appearance order, slips down the end credits of the previous one with the bourgeois indifference of the merchant getting off the carriage, like that soft snow whitening a pale city dazed by the latest epidemic and the latest Amazon ad. A city perpetually awake and tired, where that dream in progress left us stranded right at the most beautiful moment. The landing could also have been soft, but lightness is now only a seagull feather affair.

Being light, yes, but also radical.

"As modern poetry stands to Baudelaire's poems, so modern music has its roots in Debussy," said one of the greatest conductors of the '900s.

Yes, it has nothing to do with it, but it fit so well.

And when from those dreamy altitudes our home enters metamorphosis becoming a damp prison where Hope, like a bat, goes banging its timid wing against the walls and hitting its head on the rotten ceilings; there is nothing left but to try to regain oblivion in that lucid and musical dream, in those verses sung and off-key, of a song that probably doesn't exist, or maybe it only existed in a stolen fragment of a dream, but at that moment it became that enveloping salvation in that dark half of that halved reverie.

That lifebuoy in that stormy sea, under that sky of fog and vast spaces…

And then from those halved and unfinished dreams, among those fringes of clouds and sweaty sideburns and sixties, sometimes even half great works were born in those years. In the intersection of genres and in the expansion of the mind and of the foreskin.

The whistled complete works, a soup of genres, with '70s reverb, a clump of dream pop, and dormant shoegaze darts on Icarus’ wings, that ever shinier shoe-gazing, Emo drum kits locked in metro tunnels under waves of noise pop, waiting for the slow passage of the years, before the right girl decides to give it to you in the car under the hypnosis of My Bloody Valentine.

The whistled complete works were seeking a producer, a distributor, even a gas station, in short, a propeller, a minimum of that media visibility needed for those with a family. But no one showed such foresight to produce that electric turmoil born from a premature awakening. So what did Magic Castles think? Let's produce an album of covers of this album…

that never existed.

Here it is.

The One

This is the musicalized story of two brothers, their names are Jean-Benoît Dunkel and Nicolas Godin, they wandered for months in Lunar Craters on holiday and then returned home to Versailles by train, only they fell asleep during the Voyage (de Penelope) and woke up in Knossos. Inside a gallery labyrinth with no exit. Getting off the train, they began to wander for days inside the gallery, looking for Her, the velvettian Femme Fatale, the Femme D’Argent. Which in their case is the Eternal Absent, singular, indeed unique specimen of a Female in the world, her name is Charlotte, she plays Gainsbourg and stays with her lover on the beaches of Cap Ferrat, while the clock goes cuckoo.

Moon Dust

A cover of a track that doesn't exist is like a photo of the Trevi fountain in the desert. Under that moon dust, under that brightness, the sculpture of that desert and sanguine sound, blinded not by the California sun but by that of Magna Graecia, a Morricone-like but also Mediterranean western, amidst the harsh shadows of plateaus battered by that Greek sun. A showdown without victims and winners, that gets lost in space and eternity; border rides accompanied by desert guitars and fragments of mournful and weeping steel guitar, for cowboys tired and eroded by the Time of Decomposition.

Hollow Moon

Do you want a buzzing Farfisa or a fuzzy guitar? But then what do these Angels have so much to shout about. Before sinking deeply into the flames.

Lost in Space

One lives in reality, but in reality, it is only an unhealthy slice of a psychotic trance. There are two thugs arriving from another planet, their names are Martin and Alan, they play with a Farfisa bought on the moon and a '50s drum machine. The minimalist essentiality, that subtraction and anti-capitalist sound, less is more… Having sex with a drum machine is a deeply unsettling experience, you just have to be careful not to cut yourself too much. We want to go into Space, we have the space Smemoranda full, yes but we must prepare well, we must reset the soul and synthesize Everything. And here is that perfect, threatening, primitive sound that pours over the listener.

See Her Eyes in The Sky

Here this track, I remember it, it's the one that got stuck to the fridge. Yes, because it has a magnet buried inside…

That flavored psychedelia that delivers the Quicksilver Messenger Service into the phobias of Television, that devastating frontal with the Hawkind, wrapped in acid-rock polychromies and new wave mists.

J' adore (letrackbytrack)