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Versione 2
Rating:
Maybe Godot doesn’t come because we are waiting for him in the wrong places.
A room. Empty.
Maybe Godot doesn’t come because we are waiting for him with others.
A person. Alone.
Maybe Godot doesn’t come because we are waiting for him, bowed down by the idea we have made of him.
A chair in the center of the room.
And the chair is ragged, unsteady, worm-eaten: the throne of a King without subjects, a Napoleon confined to Saint Helena, a “Julius Caesar” relegated to four walls.
Lo-fi arpeggios of a detuned guitar wander around the hall, following the thread of a disconnected intimacy, fragile and bewildered melancholy that no longer dares to open the window.
As if the nocturnal psalms of a Nick Drake lacked the altar of a Pink Moon, as if the fluttering wings of a Syd Barrett were denied the refuge of psychedelic groves.
Waiting and absence.
A waiting that has forgotten to be such and becomes the stubborn fixity of a consciousness observing cracks along the walls, the echo of a colorless solipsism. The absence of something or someone that has never been encountered, a lost paradise vaguely evoked by soft lines of cello, a very personal guiding spirit whose features are suddenly scribbled by the hand of electric spasms.
As if the indolent languors of a Dave Pajo were denied the softness of a harmonic bed on which to rest, as if the eccentric crescendos of Gastr del Sol lacked the sure guidance of a David Grubbs.
Godot doesn’t come, but perhaps for Smog it isn’t so important after all.
Tracklist Lyrics and Samples
01 Strawberry Rash (03:07)
Meet strawberry rash
One on each cheek
Coins in the crack
Meet strawberry rash
It's the banquet of a starving girl (x2)
She's gonna swallow glass
Meet strawberry rash
Red eggs and brown apples
She's gonna swallow glass
Meet strawberry rash
Coins in (poison?) the crack
It's the banquet of the starving girl (x2)
She's gonna swallow glass
meet strawberry rash
Coins in the crack
And beggin' her to piss
11 Chosen One (03:12)
Oh whoa (x4) Well you're a wild horse On a collision course With the sun (repeat) I wanted to ride that wild horse Into the sun (repeat) But I no longer think that I'm your chosen one On no, I no longer think that I'm your chosen one Oh whoa (x2) Maybe it's best for you to ride Ride into the sun Because I no longer think that I'm your chosen one Oh no, I no longer think that I'm your chosen one Oh whoa (x4)
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By eNJoy_mUSiC
Few artists convey unease, melancholy, oppression, loneliness so genuinely.
Smog skillfully suggests the idea of a life that gradually slips away, but that never really wanted to be life.
