*Shels
Plains Of The Purple Buffalo

Paola was playing, lost in her imaginary worlds, and hadn't heard her grandmother enter her room; she only realized it when she felt a hand on her head and a gentle stroke. You could almost touch the air that filled her little room; you could see the dust motes dancing in the backlight, illuminated by the warm light of a spring sunset. It had been a long day for Paola, she was tired after so many hours of classes at school, and all she wanted was to play a little with her toys and sip the hot chocolate her grandmother had just brought her. Outside, the sea, a motionless blue carpet at the base of the cliff on which the house stood, caressed the silence of that afternoon with its slow waves, and the seagulls exchanged persistent but not annoying calls.

It was with surprise that at a certain point Paola and her grandmother realized that all these sounds had hushed: the orange light suddenly smeared with increasingly thick and rapid black patches, and a cacophony of crows and rooks surrounded the house. Once outside, they found themselves surrounded by a black flock: they were scared but in a sense, they didn't feel threatened. The birds’ wings, a dense and dark blanket, dispersed, revealing a tall and slender figure in a black cloak and hat, with a face covered by a mask with a long beak, its eyes closed by stitched scars. Paola, terrified, fled inside the house but still leaned out the window to keep an eye on the scene; she saw her grandmother first retreat, then surprisingly run to embrace the sinister figure. The two, hand in hand, then jumped off the cliff, but when Paola, breathless and desperate fearing for her grandmother’s life, rushed over, what she saw were only crows flying slowly north.

The little girl didn't think twice: she ran at full speed to the beach below, took the rowing boat of her poor fisherman grandfather (who had disappeared only a few years earlier), and rowed with all her strength to chase after those two dark specks in the twilight sky. As she rowed, her face pearly with a mix of sweat and tears, she thought of the hands: her grandmother's, as velvety as peach skin, and her grandfather's, strong, lined with calluses and scars from the many nights spent fishing. Hands that had often caressed and cradled her, hands that had suddenly disappeared.

Following the crows, she reached an islet she didn't recognize: small, perhaps the size of her house, filled with purple flowers and strange shrubs. In the distance, on a small hill, she saw her grandmother and the dark man and ran towards them. When she reached them, she hurled herself with all her might at the strange dark and beaked figure, striking its seemingly frail body with all her strength: her hands, though, were gently held in a grip she immediately recognized. Thus, she fell to her knees in astonishment, and her mouth, twisted only moments before in a grimace of pain and anger, opened into a beautiful smile: the tall man removed the mask, and his now-familiar eyes sparkled in the little remaining sunlight. Paola stood up and embraced her grandfather: he was just as she had always remembered him, perhaps a little younger, as her grandmother used to describe him after he had died. Their embrace lasted an 'eternity,' but it was the grandmother who separated them. The two elderly people bent down, kissed the girl, each on one cheek, and smiled at her. Then they turned around, were once again enveloped by a myriad of crows, and when everything calmed down, no one was left on that islet. Paola looked into the now-dark sky, then at the ground, where she picked up two feathers, dark yes but not black, an intense blue with strange golden gleams. She held them to herself, soaked them with her tears cascading down her cheeks, smiled, and turned, walking slowly towards the little boat swaying not far from her, cradled, caressed, by waves that seemed almost consoling.

In the new work by *Shels, there is a chance to enjoy a lot of good post rock: this is basically the genre offered by the band, who pay a clear tribute to Godspeed You! Black Emperor but also to Isis and Mogwai, with particular attention to the epic and poignant Morricone-esque atmospheres (which are also dear to the aforementioned Canadians). The combo reworks all inputs coming from both the previously mentioned bands and their earlier work "Sea of the Dying Dhow," (inheriting its structural progressiveness without the cerebral and intricate connotation that often accompanies them), creating a work full of magic, intangible and at the same time weight(y) and massive, where melodies and rhythms marry and blend into sandy mixes, all framed by grandiose (but never too intrusive) choirs evoking even something of 30 Seconds To Mars.

"Plains of the Purple Buffalo" is happily suited to being listened to during moments of change (like the transition from a winter season to a milder one) when you need something "friendly" that pairs well with the warm, almost springtime sun rays, without forgetting the winter rigor not yet fully passed. In general, a great show of strength by a group that truly deserves much.