Movie Star Junkies
Shadow of a rose

The horizon line was still flat with a sinister tranquility, in my eyes only visions, endless tides, seagulls, and Magritte-like clouds.

In the waiting, we were only brushed by a thread of wind and salt intertwining, no hero, no oracle, no father.

The Myth foretold the path of the comet, at the apex of the rhombus Andromeda and her boundless beauty - Andromedé in Greek sounds like "to lord over men" - and a dark omen, imminent, of a sacrifice aimed at saving the lives of the Inerts.

But the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

For many, existence is a sort of mutual contract with uneasy ancestries, a burdensome installment commitment fixing an hourglass in the void, a sobbing eternity placed precariously on the cliffs. Awaiting that Jungian wave that slips into the guts, to claim your entire life.

For others, like those mad Movie Star Junkies, life is just a sex & drugs & rock’n’roll visionary live set capable of unleashing a lethal and contagious claustrophobia.

The cistern holds, the source overflows.

And if at sunset, when the seagull passes the baton to the crow, the ride of Perseus loses its Cartesian vigor and stumbles in a sick and nocturnal rhythm,

in the shadow of that Rose.

Eternity is in love with the creations of time.

Under that burst of notes that invite the splendor of an open-air and forbidden dance, in the shadow of that solitary Rose that not only hasn't bent to the icy winter but has even become invincible among the harshness of the night.

Entwined in vegetation stinging to fragile souls, among those millennial spirits impermeable to all hypnotist temptations, in those fascinating and damasked verses (Oh the beautiful Murder Ballad "Woman Undone").

We might find ourselves on that extreme and thin line, really dangerous for the accountancy of punk and the nerdiest indie, in that delirium of Andromeda's desire to test her superhuman beauty, even to flirt with the fire of that beast that seems to surpass everything...

A CULT for a few cursed ones flowing from one extreme to the other of the moon, escaping its glow, which like on a Sumerian tablet imprisons essences and mysteries of their exclusive and wild intimacy.

A second album "A Poison Three" imbued with the magical poetry of William Blake here collected in fragments, that tree so laden with poisonous fruits, of deep reflections on the communication of anger, of tension, a unique writing skill and a sound that has in blues its transversal guide passing through the Bad Seeds, Virgin Prunes, and the Country Teasers, petals never definitively obscured of a fascinating and poisonous flower.

"Shadow Of a Rose" by these eternal Movie Star Junkies possesses a sound of millennial beauty, which stuns and seduces from the first listen, a work capable of bringing consciousness and listening into a sensory effluvium suspended, in some historical memory nook and lost corner of our mind.

He who desires but does not act, breeds pestilence.