A ticking of clocks, a ringing of bells, the neurotic trilling of a mullet, or perhaps an alarm clock. Then, arm in arm with a frenzied and circus-like quasi-wave bass, comes that beautiful lysergic sound that many smeared in the pop songs of sweet Albion sixty-six sixty-seven, as if we were at the beginning of a journey through time.

And even the voice, which soon afterwards steps in and warns us of wanting to destroy time, seems to come from that magical season of colors, scents, and joyful madness.

When then, at some unknown minute, as a surprising and unexpected interlude, a wonderful and expansive acid fugue almost Canterbury-like begins, you really feel like you've come home, or, if preferred, in that twenty-fifth hour (where everything is possible) to which the title alludes.

Oh yes, that wonderful acid fugue really takes you far away. Or rather, would really take you far, if there wasn't something imperceptible warning us that perhaps we're only playing. And that imperceptible something is just a science called "not taking oneself too seriously." And, all things considered, it too goes quite far.

Once the acid fugue ends, it resumes like before, until a macho and percussive finale, complete with a little scream and ten-second overtime of strange free-form sounds.

The effect is of sweet (merry) (very merry) (light) (very light) parody... like a love declaration from a fool who perhaps isn't so foolish... as if a band of pranksters and daring avant-gardists had once again fallen for the milk and honey of pop from the good old days.

This effect then grows from song to song. "The bike ride to the moon" and "My love explodes," are indeed somewhat between little rides and magic lanterns, where all sorts happen, among playful keyboards, sweet and incongruous music box effects, pale and joyful noises, guitar scrapes, and god knows what else.

But where have we ended up, and above all, who brought us here?

We've ended right in that twenty-fifth hour we mentioned, where anything is possible, even a meeting, without arguing all the time, between my sixties mom and my stylish and neurotic post-punk little sister.

Ah, it's lovely to see them get along like that. And it doesn't matter if dad is missing, fathers don't count for anything.

In these magical family reunions of ours, it's certainly mom who enjoys herself the most, oh yes, she's the one who lets herself go to memories and says that fluttering through delights reminds her of the little cart with colored bottles and candied fruit placed at the school exit.

What can I say, in her times they would blabber about childhood in songs (and strawberry fields and penny lines and pipers and Matilda's moms...). And it wasn't a silly thing, that even a great poet like Rimbaud harped on about rediscovering the power of childhood sensations.

And anyway, if only my mom would stop at the little cart!!! There's a whole lot of other stuff, like, dusty cellars, the shadow of trees, the rubbing of eyes, childhood songs, seven-year poet, ramshackle bicycles.

But among all these things, I hold onto the little cart. Because it's precisely with colored bottles and candied fruit that the guy who rides to the moon in "Ride bike to the moon" stocks up. Well, no, I'm shamelessly lying, as, in reality, the guy, like a good Englishman, brings with him tea and a little cake called "angel cake."

And on the moon, that very guy would indeed like to go "to get some magic powder to stop it from raining on Uncle Alfred’s head," a melancholic always lying in bed.

He'd like to go, but then doesn't and stays there with "a cosmic flat tire." (if, with my poor English, I've understood the text correctly)

Oh yes, parody or not, my sixties mom really revels in stories like these.

But even the little sister feels at home, as she remembers the candied fruit too, and doesn't mind seeing it paired with that imperceptible post-punk neurosis that's well hidden...

Hidden by what, you might ask? What you mean by what? By the colors of that magical little cart!!! Isn't there someone capturing the rainbow in the beautiful track three of the album, namely "My loves explodes"?

Oh yes, parody or not, that someone captures the rainbow and sings colored songs.

But we haven't said yet who brought us here. Well, none other than Sir John Johns, The Red Curtain, Lord Cornelius Plum, E.I.E.I. Owen, namely The Dukes of Stratosphear. Who are nothing other than XTC on vacation.

And even this thing about fictitious names is a marvel. It brings to mind Drumbo, Mascara Snake, Zoot Horn Rollo, those of the captain's magical band, in short.

Or Can, who didn't give themselves fictitious names but assigned themselves fabulous roles, with Micheal Monney, for example, not defining himself a singer but a cosmic communication enabler.

"25 o'clock" is a small album, only six songs. The four, five, six are about like one, two, three. Still playful keyboards, sweet and incongruous music box effects, pale and joyful noises, guitar scrapes, and god knows what else.

Or, to be more precise: reverbs, echoes, fuzz, reverse-guitar tracks, Farfisa organs, sitars, tablas and, again, god knows what else.

"Your gold dress," with the magical alternation of psychedelic suspension and incongruous pop explosion, is my favorite (perhaps).

"The mole from the ministry" starts with a birdsong, continues with an absurd cartoon-like voice accompanied by the usual music box keyboard, and then starts a super Beatles-like melody, with accelerated voice background. In short, grotesque and sublime together.

On "The mole of ministry" hovers the ghost of The Moles, mysterious authors of a legendary lost sixties album initially attributed to the Beatles. And, certainly, even if there's a need to not take oneself too seriously, a little healthy mythology doesn't hurt.

But listen to Andy Partridge, about childhood and musical influences: "there was nothing really interesting for a child on the radio, except for novelty songs, which were silly songs with speeded-up voices, stuff for kids. I was interested in any music that contained those voices, or an excess of reverb, or fragments of conversation or strange noises..." That's where "The mole from the ministry" actually comes from!!!

As psychedelia, always says Partridge, was "the continuation of what I liked as a child." Syd Barrett I think could have said the same thing.

I haven't said anything yet about "What in the world," a track with a beautiful acid sound, produced by god knows what aerial effects and wonderful squeaks: all on a matter still very much like the Beatles.

But there's not a track on this album that isn't a masterpiece.

Yes, the twenty-fifth hour is truly a perfect thing. And like the first of Floyd, like "Taking tiger mountain by strategy" by Eno, like "Safe as milk" by the Captain, it belongs to the category of antidepressant albums. Just listening to a single note makes me feel better right away.

Moreover, in "My love explodes," parody or not, doesn't it say "when the straight men with plastic bowler hats seize your soul and bring it down, call me with your dream phone, I'll come right away and sweep them away".

And that's just how it is, the twenty-fifth hour arrives and sweeps them away. Yes, yes, that's exactly how it is.

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