Phideaux
Snowtorch

"Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?"".

"And what is the use of a record - I thought an hour ago - without conversations and with few pictures (?)" as I was turning over in my hands this "Snowtorch", the eighth and last (but not for long, as in October 2011 the sequel to Number Seven will be printed) long-playing by the combo led by multi-instrumentalist (as well as cameraman for soap operas and serials like "General Hospital") Javier Phideaux.

It does serve a purpose.

You have surely tried, at a young age, to repeat five times before the mirror the lemma of Candyman. Or perhaps, still in the reckless phase, to drop a trip and follow the itinerary of the White Rabbit through blueberry bushes and frosting streams.

Now, those are things that are of no use (except to earn you a referral to social services). Instead, try to chant "n times" the name Phideaux, perhaps flanked by the CD support of Snowtorch in your mansion's player.

Cross the dimensional thresholds through a stellar-mass black hole originated "straight from the 70's", from the cracked mirror will drip sublime notes that will abduct you into a fairy-tale, multi-colored world right from the opening of "Star Of Light". A gravitational collapse spurred by analog instrumentation that could be the loot from a "heist" at Abbey Road.

The Jethro Tull will emerge from that mirror, evoked by the tonal changes and prog-like curls of the aforementioned opening, followed in quick succession -when Johnny Unicorn's moog breaks in- by Anathema "in crescendo" of "Thin Air" and the "ambient" turn. Like an untouched Thick As A Brick resurrected from the coffin of progressive-that-was, soft and circular scores will propagate, in a constant tailing between male (Phideaux himself) and female vocals (the Ruttan twins and Valerie Gracious). A (Sa)marillon synthesized in a recurring-concept.

Compared to the beautiful "Doomsday Afternoon" (2007), in fact, "Snowtorch" is essentially woven around a single song, whose text ("Tell me how the planet was formed") reappears (de-structured) further in the album, just as the melody that fragments and spreads its shards across its 45-minute duration. Three-quarters of an hour saturated with stuff: from the Genesis epicizing that peek through the keyboard backdrop of "Helix" to the Italo-Prog inserts that would make Le Orme blanche (reference made explicit in several interviews by Javier's band) in Snowtorch Part II (Fox Rock segment). From the intricate fineries of A Passion Play (the favorite album of the six musicians) to the fractional pace of The Lamb Lies Down On Brodway. Folk and Prog taking a colossal drunk, philosophizing about major systems, and ending up on the synth-embroidered tapestry with medieval effigies.

An enchanted cosmos that of Phideaux, stunned by surprises and lysergic-scenery where you can see the thoughtful-trotting of Alice.

Chased by Candyman, who then really, who would make him come out of that mirror.