Mike Oldfield
Ommadawn

Tempus fugit. 
My mind wanders in the dim light of the room, bouncing off the walls like a fly in a cage on a sultry summer afternoon.
An angelic choir is slowly dissolving the bond between soul and body, breaking with the force of a sledgehammer the ancient walls erected by Democritus, proving to someone, atheist like me, who does not believe in the spirit as a real and independent alter ego of our flesh, that what is happening is indeed possible.
And now I am here, suspended to watch that body, seemingly foreign, still on a chair. A pen in hand, gaze lost in the void, a single desire: to imprison in the white spaces of a crumpled sheet the essence of that apparent lament.
Suddenly, like water in a sink whose plug has been pulled out, I feel pulled down by my feet, sucked into a body I thought was not mine, I have been awakened. Ommadawn.
It is Oldfield's guitar that has abruptly brought me back to earth, oh yes, the review...
Finally the paper is stained with ink, the emotions try to escape the uncertain stroke of my pen.
Yet the desire to capture them is irresistible. The net soars into the air in the hope that an iridescent butterfly with two wings called emotion gets trapped in the chilly and austere raven black of my Bic.
Two long suites, a single, holistic outcome.
Like little working bees, the notes emitted by the instruments played by Oldfield, one after the other, take on life, shape, and color. Many small pieces forming a colorful mosaic, Klimt called it "The Tree of Life", Oldfield "Ommadawn".
It is captivating music, sometimes hypnotic, undoubtedly inspired.
In both suites, electric guitar, flute, acoustic guitar, synthesizer in all its multiple forms, and a heavenly and unmatched bagpipe take their turn gracefully.
To describe the three minutes of bagpipes, introduced in the second suite by the tubular bells so dear to Oldfield, as moving would probably be an understatement.
The mind begins to wander again, I see vividly colored butterflies, deep emotions shake my foundations, I hear your music Oldfield.

P.S.
The third track, though different in structure and duration being a sweet ballad of a few minutes, does not substantially alter the enthusiastic judgment, for a splendid work by an author who, in the first ten years of his career, offered pearls of rare beauty, only partially overshadowed by the shy and introverted nature of Oldfield himself.