The Magnetic Fields
The Charm of the Highway Strip

THE REVIEW

And the child realized that his kite, no matter how high it could fly, would never touch the vault of the sky.

Childhood was over, and maturity had not yet begun, and for the first time, the child's irises were clouded by the cataract of Reasonableness.

Pieces that live in the limbo of an uncertain age, between heaven and earth, on the strand of the highway that separates the lanes of an opposite worldview.

Sound as soft as cotton candy and as intangible as passing clouds.

Timid harmonies without being naive, rhythms that melt in your mouth, and light cinnamon-flavored keyboards play tag with mischievous flutes.

Melodic openings fresh and clear as the chrome rays of the sun passing through soap bubbles, as if the pastel-colored pieces of the Caravan composed a delicate image puzzle-Pop.

Calypso mischiefs high-five comic book western epics, plucks of banjo weave into Folk gallops, and pre-adolescent silences slowly crack the stained glass through which life is observed.

And everything is enveloped by a warm and reassuring baritone voice, halfway between a grown-up Peter Pan and a kind old townsman recounting his times over a glass of red wine.

The child no longer cares how high the kite can fly; it only matters that it can whirl around, spreading hopes at will.

Halfway between the earth and the sky, halfway between childhood and maturity, on that highway line we do not suspect exists until we have crossed it forever.