Mark Lanegan Band
Blues Funeral

I had read terrible reviews about the record. And they were not about any funeral of the Blues. It was Lanegan's cold body itself under 'autopsy'.

'Horror' screamed on the notes of Ode to Sad Disco, like an extramarital affair with synth sounds, just to name one. Post-mortem examination in red. Betrayal. Drum Machines exploding whiskey glasses and sacred ghosts now dry due to unspeakable desecration. Betrayal Songs, from the Field to the mainstream. Oh My God, the cult slips away and becomes bar talk. Here comes that Weird New Album. Like a prostitute pierced by the riff that should not be. The Myth Funeral and the faithful's retching. And then. I download the corpse. And I listen to it. And I re-listen. And I fall asleep. Listening. And I wake up. I listen. I go out. I listen. Lazarus rises, walks, runs, flies solemn scream. Different stories and idiom of a time. Or same story of a time in different idioms. I wouldn't know. I will not know. And it’s fine.

I could do a summary, song by song, and blah blah with references and instruments, and some extravagant images to color the scene. I desist. Silence. I am listening to it now, and the snow is falling from the sky. They say it's worse than the Great Snow of 1929. Amarcord now the nineteen ninety-something. Rimini, Velvet, Screaming Trees from legend are lapping on stage. Memory resurrected from heart silencing reason and scientific judgments.

Chills. But it isn’t cold.