The Alps
III

Walking through the streets, the heat weighs down my steps, anchors my movements; the sensations are prey to a sticky sense of vertigo. I doubt the solidity of the ground I tread upon and the city I am in, I doubt the memories that sizzle in my mind and even my very existence.

Perhaps that's why I stubbornly search for a bench I have known for many years now; a friendly harbor where I can rest my gaze, surveying a landscape whose every detail is familiar to me. A raft without oars where I can gently let myself go and follow the current of my thoughts.

Perhaps that's why I decide to listen to this record, a glass of fresh water from controlled origin sources. An album where the simple and crystalline arpeggio of the solo Pajo crackles through the more linear psychedelic ponds of Montgomery; where the more sugar-coated reverberations of Spacemen 3 rest on the hypnotic and soothing rhythms of the more understated Pink Floyd.

A chromatic and drowsy psychedelia where we can savor the crunchy spring colors and where soft distortions scatter in the sky the petals of cheerful poppies. A humid dreamlike atmosphere narcotizes the senses while the album plays on the alternation of "soft" instruments (bongo, xylophone, piano, acoustic arpeggios) and liquid guitar drones that climb the walls of consciousness.

An uneven light illuminates the cartilage of soft harmonies while deep lake pools are rippled by the breeze of reassuring reverberations. A subtle play of mirrors reflects vaporous changing images that expand and blur in the ether before being fixed in memory.

A balanced record without being flat, thoughtful without being overly complex. An album that has the merit of speaking a language we might already know perfectly, but in doing so, it has the seductive freshness of a harmonious and fresh voice. Just like that bench, sometimes it's exactly what we need.