Renaissance
Ashes Are Burning

THE REVIEW

From the diary of Sir Pibroch, September 15

I think I might take a few minutes off from working on my thesis, because it's starting to weigh on me. Outside, it's a serene late September Saturday; the sun illuminates and warms the lawn and the plants and the house and my thoughts.

My thoughts, indeed, an impressionistic painting of my soul. I'm craving an impressionistic experience, yes; I think I will now admire “Ashes Are Burning” again, a twisted and beautiful painting by the wonderful “Renaissance” in their second phase (first exhibited at “Regal Zonophone” in 1973), and then I will finally tell you what I think of it. Yes, that's exactly what I'll do.

I find myself wanting to talk about emotions once again, because such sensations are what I often and gladly seek in music. And so, between the seriousness of the great rhythmic work and the playfulness of the harmonics chasing each other, “Can You Understand” accompanies for almost ten minutes in some sort of sweet storm, where the path to follow is indicated by the lighthouse of the voice – beautiful – of Annie Haslam.

Wise piano notes now support the delicate melody of “Let It Grow” before it, protected by the clear drumming by Terence Sullivan, flares first in very high and enchanting notes and immediately after in an intense choral call of great suggestion: “excellent ballad,” would say the laconic critic not very critical and very laconic. “On The Frontier” has the beautiful Haslam duetting with a male voice counterpart strained to the limit to not lag behind; it turns into an airy song where one recognizes the factors that give immediate recognizability to the sound of the “mark II” (excuse my deep and purplish reference): the joyful piano by John Tout embeds a pulsating and effective bass along with emphatic choirs.

But it's time, finally: a few guitar chords and fleeting keyboard, spine-tingling singing; "Carpet Of The Sun" is a ballad that must be listened to, at least once. The harpsichord is a maddened top, the keyboard notes fly very high, almost shrill, the violin is a comet in the sky. Higher still, the star of Haslam's voice; wonder.

Dark notes, however, now resonate from that distressed piano, the fog rises from the ocean and the port's melancholy echoes in the twilight, hypnotic girl singing. "The Harbour" is another small gem suspended between the crisp air and the wind whipping the coast. This melancholic landscape, skeleton of history, is finally ashes still burning; “Ashes Are Burning,” indeed. Jonathan Camp's bass persists throughout the eleven minutes of the track with raging evolutions and gallops supported by the infantry marching on the drum skins; the keyboards are iridescent embers, Michael Dunford's acoustics shape shrill, slanted, effective chords. Only one place seems safe, Haslam rides swiftly toward it. The progressive castle will welcome her blonde hair once more as the night sky turns crimson.

At night, through the now desolate lands, you can still hear her sing; it’s a melodic and touching chant. Then you hear a dark and prolonged chord caring for a piercing guitar that wails in the darkness until dawn – a joyful march of drums – will return to wake the world.

So, I've written a few words, a confused impression of my mind. Enjoy them or forget them, the important thing is that they exist.

I almost forgot, the piercing guitar: legends say it belonged to Andy Powell from the County of Wishbone Ash, a guest at the progressive castle while the ashes burned.

As for me, since we're talking about stars, I can finally only express myself with stars. Five stars, like Cassiopeia or the Southern Cross. Five stars like the Hotel Fürstenhof or Sammontana's ice cream. Five stars as perhaps Sheherazade would have also deserved.