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Can one be disheveled and at the same time almost heroic?
Can one throw dark beauty in the world's face, as if it were nothing?
Here, at track six, transcendence is brushed against, and reality -the usual well-delivered punch to the gut- transforms into something ineffable.
A trembling banjo of mad sweetness, the screwed-up voice of the usual stoned ballad. Then, in the end, something remains, a totally magical and incoherent free sax lingers as if it were the ultimate apparition of the incongruous, the out of place, the away from home.
It shines with an intermittent light like a Martian toy. Maybe it's the monolith of the disheveled.
…
And anyway...
A handful of ballads with a hard shell, white sparks in the white sky. Getting screwed is a sort of ecstasy. a matter of disturbed melodies in slow drift.
An exhausting substrate of fog and blues. Constant implosion where the broth is extended into an epic of the minus sign disguised as a great sleep.
And anyway, just to say something else, track three is the most apathetic Syd, but in a black opera version.
Track five, a little organ always on the verge of disappearing, distorted by who knows what.
But everything grabs you in the stomach from start to finish.
Tutansued seven, who knows where, who knows why...
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