Randy Burns
Evening of the Magician

When I was a child, someone bought the Pearls Before Swine record and, my god, what was that stuff?

It felt like being in another time (the Middle Ages, the Renaissance?) or in a mysterious parallel world.

Do you know when things don't make sense and yet somehow they do? "Uncertainty, you and I are alike," as the poet would say.

After all, if there's one thing we ragged folks hate, it's those with a straight and confident stride; the doors of perception don't open for them.

And anyway, how many heroes back in those years, how many pilgrims in the great city!! People who slept on the couch and played who knows where, waiting for someone sufficiently crazy to let them record an album.

Well, many of these guys -the Pearls, Ed Askev, and even our Randy Burns- found a home, bless the ESP-Disk, whoever the blessing's from.

Well, today all we have to do is seek out these records, a bit of light in our miserable life.

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A whisper of words, a whisper of music. Close your eyes, or open them, it makes no difference.

The sixties, the sixties always and forever.

That thing made of light, naivety, enchanted softness. Two pence worth of mysticism.

Two pence worth for torn pockets.

The usual minstrel, something reminiscent of the very first Tim, imagine that. And, whatever it means, just a hint of psych.

"The evening of the wizard" "love at your door" "the mind that flies," those words that make you smile outside of their time, but only because we're assholes and have lost the light.

What are you doing? Laughing again? Never mind, take it as it comes, luludia, the lilies of the field don't worry.

This is a record that needs time or maybe just a winter evening. At first, the strangest things catch your attention, after all, it's pretty hard not to notice when you reach the sky.

But slowly, the rest comes too, "poetry poetry seems like it's not there and then it takes you by the hand"...

That's when you find yourself walking two centimeters off the ground even if you're sitting in an armchair. Here comes the usual sweet shipwreck, the usual bright melancholy.

And in the end, all that remains is to blow away the dust of time to reach the now...

Trallallà...