Tarentel
From Bone to Satellite

Colorful, varied, and lush is the fruiting that the primitive slintian seeds produce in the vast garden that, for content needs, goes by the name of post-rock. Alongside exotic and multicolored blooms of timeless (and genre-less) beauty, barren and venomous underbrush often flatten and contaminate the landscape.

And then there are the buds cultivated in greenhouses; they grow smooth and beautifully shaped, but, when they are about to open, the promise of happiness they represented is unfailingly unfulfilled. Too much care suffocates the fragrance and dulls the color, just as, in many of Zola's novels, naturalist orthodoxy made the actions and thoughts of the characters too artificial.

This is the major flaw I find in the debut of Tarentel; a record otherwise magnificently played, but which can be summarized, in its essential lines, in a few lines.

A cosmic dust permeates the tracks; sudden guitar fluorescences illuminate hidden paths while the froth of elastic rhythms crashes against the rocks. Slender arpeggios slowly weave in like temptations repressed for too long and end up chewed by the crescendo of hoarse cosmic winds that spit them into nothingness.

Hard-rock overheating glitters for a moment in the atmosphere before diving into the icy waters of expanded harmonies, and, transformed, they resurrect clear and calm. It seems like listening to a bourgeoisified Gottsching jesting in a jam with Explosions in the Sky.

In short, "“From Bone to Satellite” is certainly a good record with an interesting structure. However, it seems to me to be a somewhat artificial structure that suffers from a monochromatism similar to Blok's poems from the later period, when the symbolic repertoire no longer created enchanted worlds wrapped in mist, but rather folded in on itself, crystallizing into stereotypical forms.