Polyrock
Above The Fruited Plain US EP [1982]

Chains of Iron.
Before Sunrise. 1982 Long Beach

June in Desio, intense lavender scents in the roar of the solstice,

bodies in the sun to sculpt the sand and beach electronics lifting.

From the cave of her Ray-Bans, suddenly a ball splashed by a wave rolled along the sun line,

her attention violently assaulted and her head once again seduced by that sound elsewhere, by that wireless electricity.

She was so fascinating, ruthlessly aware,
she knew when to disappear and hide under moonlight.
Nothing remains but to laugh at the deceiving time, at the sun peeking out, at its pop rhythm, getting lost without meeting.
After all, She could say and do anything and we are on a carousel, avant l’automne.

I see
See a girl beside her dreams
Romantic dreams

Almost an endeavor to enter others' dreams, when we often cannot shape that colored clay from ours.
And the biggest stars are the brightest ones or merely the closest ones.
Among those oblique waves of the New Wave, which flooded the 5 continents
the Polyrock like other gems, like the same yet different Chrome, arrived After The Sunset, after the spotlight had already anointed the workers.
And probably there was little space for that luminescence from other worlds, for that sound without faces, for that music without marketing, those bouquiniste looks without the Seine.
—
Perhaps it would have sufficed to relax the breath and the neurosis of those beats, for a moment
half-closed eyelids listening to “ Your Dragging Feet “, pervaded by that choral presence
inside our stone walls, scratched by those sobs and those sharp riffs, inside our stone walls…
►

It might seem possible, Before Midnight, on that solitary beach
to glimpse in the twilight a love triangle
between Philip Glass, David Byrne, and Julie Delpy.
Soundtracked in that dusk
by a band so low profile as to become invisible,
a sound without forms and faces,
a Venetian mask that conceals a love consumed in the shadow,
buried in transcendence.
Gentle synth vibrations unfold with Apollonian guitar arpeggios,
caught in the advance of the night by spastic arrangements on the Akron frontier.

Passion is a strange beast, it takes hold right after the disappearance of acne,
not even time to rub your eyes.

That rose on the windowsill that suddenly became an instrument of war and conquest,
from that pantagruelian sound this post-rock dancefloor imploded, for the suicidal dance of the timid and the Lisbon sisters.
Canticle of that young man, in blazer and dark glasses who had just whispered to the DJ to play Philip Glass.
Memory of that waver lost in the waves of that scorching and criminal summer,
exhausted by those nights and those naive and exterminator angels.

I remember never having danced to any of these songs.
I remember always dreamed of dancing to them all, exhausted until dawn.

Prisoners of that dream,
in the ecstasy of a crystallized desire reverberations of the first New Wave, with all that pollen and that Lexicon of Love denatured, denatured and deprived of the richness of those so imperious strings; but also for these Big Apple boys, the postman forgot to call on Valentine's Day and the umbrella wouldn't open with the bursting of the storm.

"Working on my Love" is Polyrock's existential treatise
the turning of the page after the perfect and victorious equinox of that Love Song
farewell to celestial metaphysics and surrender to the law of bodies and the frenzy of summer,
the cold detachment from the trusted mentor, to regain possession of that lost dance,
that essay of casual dance in front of one's mirror.

The practice on one's own desires and passions and that need not to be subjugated
by that style, albeit perfect.

The start is on the notes of primordial electronics, among the first Depeche and Soft Cell, that voice so incredibly ethereal and dreamy…
and that drum machine so obsessive and seductive.
After that monumental Love Song and that pop perfection achieved,
one had to start again from one's own uncertainties for a new Odyssey.

"Chain of Irons" is the essence of the mescal that exudes from all this written
the transversal uncertainty of no longer believing in the accommodating fairy tale
breaking that chain and fleeing elsewhere and however far from
it is the ultimate warmth that ignites that ice in the veins,
that dissolves that tearless dictatorship.

"Broken China" retraces that stuttering rhythm of Devo's “Gut Feeling”
after a sleepless night with those tempting ghosts
but that train without passengers will not eclipse in that roar
but will decelerate and derail towards unknown peninsulas
simply beyond and in the direction of a more intense beauty
until disintegrating and dissolving in the enigma of a deeper meaning
in that sweet overpowering.

It has been over 35 years since this "Above the fruited plain" was released, an Ep composed of five gems, orphaned both of Philip Glass's production and of Tommy Robertson's significant contribution and violin, but still listening to that diamond of "Indian Song" it seems to me I can still hear the best Mogwai, from that ghostly sound and that wordless voice of Madame Oblasney.
Just see at night, from the highest point of the stratosphere, how many fireflies fall from the sky.