Neil Young
Tonight's the Night

THE REVIEW

Holy desire to live, and sweet Venus of Rimmel. Five months later, "Tonight Is The Night".

Faint halos of light in the darkness, destined to extinguish. Desperate epitaphs and painful memories of buried times. Discreet wailing will-o'-the-wisps crackle in the dark. Lying supine on the bed, voluptuously inhaling large puffs of smoke, depressed and pissed off: a Vettriano painting. Grains of happiness that conceal a universe of sadness. Absurdity as the only true meaning. A desolate harmonica, evocative of boundless deserts, of the gray dusty corner where the spider weaves and you curl up to cry. The rain that taps on the windows of the soul. Flickering blue stars that slowly fade away.

Rampant and joyful guitars try to heal wounds that are too deep. The longing for an isolated plateau, where one can be alone to find oneself, and then not find oneself, to truly be alone. The dawn of slow-core. Astral chills, wide giddy vistas of icy snow-capped peaks, suspended in a horrible limbo. Exiting one nightmare to enter a worse one. Futile exhortations get lost in the ether. The power of immediacy that disrupts the senses.

And the awareness, finally, of having risen to Art, the eternal and multiform phoenix.

A tear runs down my metalhead cheek. I am just a poor soul, overwhelmed by something greater than myself. Overwhelmed by the genius of someone who shouldn't have sold a single record.

Danny Whitten and Bruce Berry, may the shadow of cypresses watch over your eternal rest.

And to you, Neil, once more... thank you.