Mogwai
Mr. Beast

THE REVIEW

When the sun has almost killed itself in the west. When she's not there. When you feel that everything is exploding with beauty and pain. With love and solitude. Here it is...

The notes of the piano are wavering illusions of tranquility, majestic in the embrace of guitar and drums to the point of almost causing pain, a prelude to the serpent that devours Glasgow wrapping it in its coils of chords in a landscape that fades into defeat and anger. The drum-machine marks the rhythm for the soft lament of a prisoner forced to swallow expectations, undecided whether to fall or jump, suspended uncertain between the desire to scream and the desire to remain silent.
Then the dream, a soft and disarming intertwining of strings and keys, of melodies ready to snap to attention at the crescendoing rhythm of sudden and inevitable martiality. Everything makes sense, the rising, the flying.
The awakening has the pink of dawn around it, the sound of a promise that implodes when it seems to be the moment to be kept. Bitterness slowly melts the ties with the dreamlike part of the self, the power chord rises unhindered to the clouds only to fall back into poems recited in ideograms.
And in the end, you collapse, overwhelmed by this emotional rollercoaster, shouting to yourself that you just want to lie down and let go, go, go...