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THE REVIEW
That night, that damned night, I wanted everything to end. To never look anyone in the face again, neither pain, nor myself.
There was a tense atmosphere there, calm but tense, tense and suffocating and thin; there was an open door -no, it was ajar, just enough to let through the timid orange light of a lamp and the cries of a sob, so small and subdued, and alone like a child.
There was a woman in that room. Immersed in the shadows, she was bent over, and she did not speak. He was not there.
Some sobs broke a silence of distilled anguish. Everything was still.
I swallowed. I moved in the bed. The blankets had suddenly become heavy, oppressive. I couldn't breathe. Perhaps it was the end, if anything had ever truly had a beginning. My jaw was clenched; more and more; and again; even tighter, even more, yes like that. My teeth hurt. They creaked. I was grinding my soul, barely held in my throat like a cannon shot. Filthy and crumpled I was, garbage. Shit.
The bleeding gums. The tears. The bitterness. The suffocated anguish. The trembling silence.
I walked, staggered, stumbled, where was I going? I leaned against the wall, the taste of blood and tears was terrible, it slid down my throat, a wretched snake. Die like a dog. Be quiet, quiet, don't scream, she must not hear you.
The corridor was completely dark, except for the sliver of faint light coming from the room of sobs. I passed by it. I glimpsed from behind, through the murky tears, her somewhat chubby and petite silhouette. My head was spinning, I coughed, spat something slimy, but I didn't care, I struggled towards the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror and saw only a poor idiot looking for a shred of compassion. The reflection hinted at a sinister and pained smile. The face was pink and round like a moon, a scarred, frightened, and distraught moon, the mouth a river of bright red, the eyes two gray puddles forgotten by God.
Sound of shattered glass. A moment of cold cacophony and glittering tinkling.
Some gasping. Then everything faded to black.
That night, that damned night, I wanted everything to end. To never look anyone in the face again, neither pain, nor myself. Neither pain, nor myself.
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Summary by Bot
This review delves into the intense and haunting emotional atmosphere evoked by Nick Drake's Pink Moon. It captures feelings of personal pain, isolation, and suffocation, reflecting the somber and introspective nature of the album. The vivid and poetic language portrays a night filled with anguish and despair, mirroring the album’s melancholic essence. Ultimately, the review invites listeners into a raw, vulnerable experience rather than offering straightforward praise or critique.
Nick Drake
Nicholas Rodney "Nick" Drake (19 June 1948 – 25 November 1974) was an English singer-songwriter noted for three studio albums: Five Leaves Left (1969), Bryter Layter (1971) and Pink Moon (1972).36 Reviews
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By zaireeka
Listening is not enough.
I listen to Pink Moon and embark on a journey at the end of my little night.
By joe strummer
Nick’s voice penetrated my heart to touch the deepest strings of my soul, it motivated me immensely.
This album has made my life less trivial, less flat and gray.
By maxgit
"'Pink Moon' is the story of a defeat but also represents a victory."
The image is one of free fall, into the void, without a parachute. But there’s no pain, no suffering, you simply let yourself be carried away.
By Louis
I recognize that fantastically acoustic guitar, that familiar and unknown voice, beautiful and dangerous, perhaps the right thing at the wrong time?
Tears are the blood of the soul.
By Frank Bermuda
"Pink Moon is just like a sad phone call that goes deep inside you and injects you with a form of profound melancholy."
"Nick Drake is the almost extinguished ember burning in the coal of a fireplace, but that will never fully go out."
