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Landfill Freedom.
From the Genesis of the millennial root.
Those trembling steps of Perseus moving backward, eyes focused on that mirror reflected on Medusa, in that precise instant and in that moment, black and white life turns into a rainbow...
Just one breath, to lose oneself in the Myth forever.
That backward journey towards Genesis, towards a partial contact with the Creative impulse. For years, everyone has been wondering what happened to the beautiful Miranda, in ecstatic trance on the rocks of Hanging Rock, a blonde maiden from the late 1800s and a Botticellian vision, blending into the overflowing nature of the plateau and losing herself at the top of the valley...
It's no coincidence that in Weir's film, everything stops precisely at noon. In the afternoon where the Sun reigns supreme at its zenith and in its absolute axiality, bodies no longer cast shadows, at the foothills of Pan's midday slumber—the flutist at the gates of dawn—where only the Invisible awakens, the flowing source of the Sacred in the everyday...
-Now I know... I know that Miranda is a Botticelli painting—the sense of time that becomes eternal by losing the connotation of past and future.
What we see and what we seem are but a dream, a dream within a dream.
And in that sliding door of perception, where algebra hands over to the sisters Philein and Sophia, sight is blurred but the senses are heightened a thousandfold, ignoring where Miranda/Manon Blanchard truly went and how she could have disappeared from that metaphysical rock.
Those girls might have grown tired of that landfill freedom...to aspire to something higher, murmured the more intelligent ones, in the village...
Because someone, on the other side of that sliding door, properly smoked, was instead going to great lengths to prepare to host those Nymphs in that exemplary moment, in that labyrinthine studio apartment, intertwined in that spiritual/carnal/nodal embrace spiced with essences of mandrake and belladonna. The first thought, without hesitation, is the right one, the Pythagorean exact time, that nook in the rock, a paradoxical place of breaking levels and a junction where the sensible world can be transcended. In the Phaedo, Socrates speaks of that Other World, studded with gems and diamonds; and it is here that you begin to understand why precious stones are precious: they are precious because they call to mind something that already existed in our mind...
The reincantation of the lost world was then greedily spread on the red cover of Chains by Junkyard Liberty like a CiaoCrem, in the shadow of Dionysus where a sparkling light depicting a woman could be seen, as in the images of the Bhavacakra, a fluid image outside our gaze, a wandering semblance in slow motion that moves from the phantasmic to the haughty semidivinity with the nonchalance of a Refnian yawn-inducing tracking shot. A pulpit of neon pink like in the best traditions of the dark catacombs, before going to meet the next decomposition. Crossing the darkness, clouds, and dense fumes above the heads and that line of a marine horizon marking the earthly perimeter. Here we are, and there They are. But in the vertical, the music changes, where Deities, intrigued by the mad vibrations of the Hybris counter in ecstasy and dance, travel in the opposite direction to ours along the paths of that lost memory, which is the awakening of unconscious vision, fallen into earthly landfill... The reincantation of the world with the endorsement of Dionysus, who now stimulated the strings of a Gibson and Apollo, emitting glimmers to justify his presence among the clouds, unfolded slowly like a reel lost for years on the notes of this first and last work, conceived by the twisted mind of the late David Fitzgerald, already leader of the cult band the Telescopes. Spiritually elevated by the presence and ancient soul of the vocalist Manon Blanchard/Miranda, a timeless arcane presence throughout the album. Because the one who is enlightened exits time and history—from the metaphysical fissure in the rock—and when they awaken, their time becomes an eternal present...From the depths of the sea to the shore at dusk with the stones and waves crashing against the cliff, hiding shadows of ancient ghosts—Living Theme—is the correct initiation for those approaching this type of listening, just as Soul Fragrance is the perfect departure and disappearance from reality. In a subdued and baroque manner, Living Theme is an illuminating overture guiding bare feet towards a boutique of relatively obscure tapestries and carpets from the San Francisco Sound, a touch of influences ranging from classical—remarkable the violin of Lucie Lacou—and never crossing into exclusively psych territories, along that pocket-sized odyssey with an ambitious goal to retrace the millennial root, just as long as it takes to smoke a blonde for the magic of the It's a Beautiful Day in White Bird format. And the reincantation of the world's landfills passes gently through the psych glam mood of Tes yeux de velours, which speaks coincidentally of a nocturnal encounter with shocking people and has an almost absolute similarity with a hit by Tess Park & Anton Newcombe, the only track with a rhythmic score and a refrain that, despite macabre tones, brings us back to our tribal monkey-like nature and reminds us who we are and where we come from...and yes, because when dreams are too big for our overly dilated pupils, a pinch at the right moment is the little reset needed to start again and not completely dissolve like the Beloved Piper...
When the concept involves disappearance, it's not trivial to expect the pearls of the album at the dark and sandy bottom of Hey and Soul Fragrance, pearls infused with West Coast melancholy on the wings of Jefferson Airplane & Love, particularly the last track seemingly sung spiritually by the decadent spirit of Arthur Lee.
A magical and mesmerizing album, with a great fragrance of Miranda.
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