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Rating: Reminiscences, flashes, tumults of invisibility. In the corner of the storage room, we see the forgetfulness of which we are made. The fragments of a session of regressive hypnosis, visions of past lives, standing watching the ocean on the deck of a caravel. That toy we loved as a child, the sounds and noises filtered by the amniotic fluid, suspension...
Understanding of the friction between the flesh of the body and the soul, the noise of the blood as it moves. Detachment in observing ourselves from the outside, cohesion of Universes, impersonal compactness, silent disintegration. Waves of loneliness transmigrating, incandescent tokens of the meritocracy of nothingness, imaginative transplants of post-ever, elliptical immobilities, openings towards cyclical exaltations.
The swing is like the rocking horse and reproduces that tunnel, both on the way there and back. And then the light, bright, white light. Heartbeats and syncopes, please don't stop, never stop. Beauty is the deception of the senses, the spider here is the deception to the senses. Beauty is not useful but is indispensable. Beauty pierces. Devastating ruthless beauty, devastating. Real Life...
Irregularity and perfection coexist. There's no longer the currency of exchange, there's a sound carpet that, like teleportation, transports us where the evanescence of everything exists, sounds, noises, reflections. The reverberation of resonances devastates decaying securities. The irradiating dust elsewhere replaces the marrow, transformation unfolds involving other levels and perceptions. A second heart grows, one beats in the search for ourselves, the other in the loss: "Good night, my love..." Kentucky: fried chicken and Slint...
Like all true states of hallucination, the pieces zigzag, untainted by comparisons and parallels: it's solely a short circuit that scrapes atrophied glands. Gunmetal-colored sarabands. Feelings are alien, feelings are no longer plagiarized. A transcendental joy cleans the windshield and the rearview mirror from illusory good intentions. The astral condition corroborates the end of sadness. A shower of solder lapilli liquefies coagulations, the contamination of purity resolves millenary fevers, the release implodes a hidden turbo, the cold horror is consistent with our abandonment.
We merge with the sidereal phantasmagorical flight, the launch is dynamic in projecting towards the underground, to the center of the Earth. Mystifying buried futures... Targets are raised deliberately missing them so that bloody bliss pervades us: the halo of despoiling rolls through digestions. The precipitation goes from bottom to top. The eternal sages applaud in silent understanding. Made in the west, but this birth is not part of the western hemisphere.
Hypothetical wonder of a soundtrack for "The Hanging Gardens of Babylon", Persepolis, Byzantium. A suitable harsh air for that impossible dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes: "I am 'The Great'! Can I do something for you? Get out of the Sun..." From 323 BC (death of both) to 1991 AD of Spiderland, palindromic cabalistic coincidences, Louisville bucephalous and cynical.
We can live inside the woven barrel, there is the Pluriverse both there and on the web: "What use do we have for the harmonies of angels when we have found the angels themselves?"
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 Breadcrumb Trail (05:55)
I stepped out onto the midway. I was looking for the pirate
ship and saw this small, old tent at one end. It was blue,
and had white lights hanging all around it.
I decided to check out the tent, it seemed I could hear music coming from inside.
As I walked toward it, I passed a crowd of people at the sideshow.
I couldn't figure out why they would want to wait in line.
I pulled back the drape thing on the tent.
There was a crystal ball at the table, and behind it, a girl wearing a hat. She
smiled, and asked me if I wanted my fortune read.
I said okay, and sat down.
I thought about it for a minute, and asked her if she would rather go on the roller coaster instead.
Creeping up into the sky.
Stopping, at the top and, starting down.
The girl grabbed my hand, I clutched it tight.
I said good-bye to the ground.
Far below, a soiled man.
A bucket of torn tickets at his side.
He watches as the children run by.
And picks his teeth.
Spinning 'round, my head begins to turn.
I shouted, and searched the sky for a friend.
I heard the fortune teller, screaming back at me.
We stuck out our hands, and met the winds.
The girl falters as she steps down from the platform.
She clutches her stomach, and begins to heave.
The ticket-taker smiles, and the last car is ready.
Who told you that you could leave?
The sun was setting by the time we left.
We walked across the deserted lot, alone.
We were tired, but we managed to smile.
And the gate I said goodnight to the fortune teller.
The carnival sign threw colored shadows on her face, but I could
tell she was blushing.
02 Nosferatu Man (05:34)
I live in a castle
I am a prince
On days I try
To please my queen
Soon as I start to smile
My smiling queen
Who sits across the table
By the food she made
Like a bat I flushed the girl
And I flew out my back door
And I came to no one no more
She ran without glances
And railed like a red coal train
Eyelids are open
When the sun is high
I slip away from my queen's
Grey state
I can be settled down
and be doing just fine
Until I heard that old train
Rolling down the line
With the light she disappeared
And set me in a whirl
And i hope that beautiful girl
I set a fire burning
And I railed on through the night
I set a fire burning
And I railed on through the night
She peeked around the corner
She offered me her hand
My teeth touched her skin
Then she was gone again
Now my queen is fine
In her early grave
After that girl I'll keep her warm
There's nothing more to save
03 Don, Aman (06:28)
Don stepped outside.
It felt good to be alone.
He wished he was drunk,
Thought about something he said,
And how stupid it had sounded
He knew he should forget about it
and decided to piss, but he couldn't...
(A plane passed silently overhead, the streetlights, and the buds on the trees and the night, were still.)
It finally came, he took a deep breath.
It made him feel strong, and determined,
To go back inside.
The light.
Their backs.
The conversation.
The couples, romancing, so natural.
His friends stare,
With eyes, like the heads of nails.
The others.
Glances.
With amusement,
With evasion,
With contempt.
So distant,
With malice,
For being a sty
In their engagement,
Like swimming underwater in the darkness,
Like walking through an empty house,
Speaking to an imaginary audience,
being watched from outside, by no-one
(A song without a key)
He could not dance to anything.
Don left,
And drove,
And howled,
And laughed,
At himself.
He felt he knew what that was.
Don woke up,
And looked at the night before.
He knew what he had to do.
He was responsible.
In the mirror,
He saw his friend.
04 Washer (08:50)
Goodnight my love
Remember me as you fall to sleep
Fill your pockets with the dust and the memories
That rises from the shoes on my feet
I won't be back here
Though we may meet again
I know it's dark outside
Don't be afraid
Everytime I ever cried from fear
Was just a mistake that I made
Wash yourself in your tears
And build your church
On the strength of your faith
Please
Listen to me
Don't let go
Don't let this desperate moonlight leave me
With your empty pillow
Promise me the sun will rise again
I too am tired now
Embracing thoughts of tonight's dreamless sleep
My head is empty
My toes are warm
I am safe from harm
06 Good Morning, Captain (07:39)
"Let me in", the voice cried softly
From outside the wooden door.
Scattered remnants of the ship could be seen in the distance.
Blood stained the icy wall of the shore.
"I'm the only one left, the storm took them all."
He managed as he tried to stand.
The tears ran down his face.
"Please, it's cold"
When he woke, there was no trace of the ship
Only the dawn was left behind by the storm.
He felt the creaking of the stairs beneath him
That rose, from the sea to the door.
There was a sound at the window then.
The captain started, his breath was still.
Slowly, he turned.
From behind the edge of the windowsill
There appeared a delicate hand of a child.
His face was flush and timid.
He stared at the captain through frightened eyes.
The captain reached for something to hold on to.
"Help me", he whispered, as he rose slowly to his feet.
The boy's face went pale.
He recognized the sound.
Silently, he pulled down the shade against the shadow.
Lost in the doorstep of the empty house.
"I've been trying to find my way home.
I'm sorry, I miss you.
I miss you.
I've grown taller now.
I want the police to be notified.
I'll make it up to you.
I swear, I'll make it up to you.
I miss you."
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Other reviews
By ZiOn
"Forty minutes. That’s the duration of one of the most brutal murders in music history."
"In Spiderland, in 1991, it was all already there."
By zigghio
A symphonic poem of majestic silent acoustic terrorism.
The highest song of a troubled and devastated generation.
By sickman
Spiderland is one of the most influential albums of the last 15 years, the founder of a new style called post-rock.
Good Morning Captain, besides being one of the most beautiful things that I have personally ever listened to, slowly takes us among the clouds only to crash us back to the ground.
