The Czars
Sorry I Made You Cry

Built around eleven predominantly obfuscated sixties-reinterpretations, the recent work released under the 'Czarista' moniker is essentially nothing more than the intimate collection of the solitary work of the intriguingly interpretative Mr. John Grant, the sole survivor of the dissolved transoceanic sound-entity in question: abandoned by the rest of the crew a few months after the release of the previous and (pen)ultimate work ("Goodbye," a title evidently prophetic) of two seasons ago.

The fragments assembled in this collection are, in substantial part of their pleasant unfolding, interpreted and performed in an exquisitely introspective, personal, and positive manner: the chiaroscuro, skeletal trac(k)es that constitute the corpus suonandi of the "Crying" work are, compared to the original material, semi-unrecognizable: mostly calm atmospheres, languid, enveloping, genuinely crepuscular, which even in their underlying structural slenderness insinuate themselves (pleasurably) one after the other, without any perceptible suffering, between intrathoracic atria and ventricles, aiming straight, without the aid of any synaptic intermediation, at our rhythmically pulsating life-radiating organ.

It is necessary to underscore, when approaching this rich dispenser of cardiac sound-emotions, that there is no doubt whatsoever that a certain mood predisposition is required to immerse oneself among the sparse sound-tunnels, moderately (soporific?) spleenistic, which it is pervaded by and constituted of: Mr. Grant, in the fifty intimate firsts available, extracts and represents all His crystalline and crooneristic class, delivering a masterful, heartfelt, captivating interpretation, capable, on more than one occasion, of provoking the delightful goosebump-inducing effect.

Devoid of any supporting rhythmic-percussive structure, the work relies on an instrumental arsenal reduced to the bone, limited to the exclusive use of graceful, sparse intersections/layers of acoustic and slide guitars (present in all tracks), a solitary, mournful trumpet, a punctuated piano that episodically shifts into an ecclesiastical organ ("Strange"), upon which the (sir) vocal register and the splendid, shadowy, assured, and solid voice of "our" figure prominently.

Among the moments that most tickled the romantic-introspective eavesdropping side (I swear: I possess one myself...) of the vacuous writer, I would cite the magnetic track-pair placed at the composite opening from the archaic traditional "Black Is The Color" and the succeeding "The Angel Eyes" (yes, even Abba), transfigured into skeletal, enveloping, charming episodes. Additional points of attraction are contained in the immensely languid "For Emily" and the heartbreaking "You Don't Know What Love Is," where tones and sparse skirmishes between acoustic and electric become (even) more bare, intimate, and confidential: as structurally slender as they are concretely fascinating. In contrast, on the more (let's call it) sunny side, I would include the ultra-pick strummed and compelling "I Fall To Pieces" and the remarkable title-disco track ("I'm Sorry").

Indeed, if one requires a tearful, temporary, liberating, and healthy outburst, the perception of this work persists with para-onion if not searingly ocularly intense properties.

List of the [tearful] trac(k)es

01. Black Is The Colour
02. Angel Eyes
03. Where The Boys Are
04. My Funny Valentine
05. For Emily
06. Leavin' On Your Mind
07. You Don't Know What Love Is
08. I'm Sorry
09. I Fall To Pieces
10. Strange
11. Song To The Siren