Smashing Pumpkins
Machina/The Machines Of God

M A C H I N A.

The most majestic, warm, immortal, lethal, loving, occluded, empathic, mystical, sentimental, and suffered funeral that rock & roll has ever had the honor to witness being performed, despite itself but at the same time with great courage and hope.
First of all, I wonder how it's possible that the critics severely cut it off right after listening to "Everlasting Gaze," which, according to them, sounds like a compositional attack on previous "Bullet with Butterfly Wings," "Zero," and "Tonight, Tonight." Even though I think these "Wells of MUSIC" would do better not to confuse the fact that while a lot of crap like Britney Spears and MR. AFRO CULTURISM 50 C were joyfully dancing, blissfully unaware of being at the top of the charts everywhere, reflecting on the fact that this would lead fans to mental masturbation, and virgins being overly violated, THE SMASHING PUMPKINS created, dissecting if necessary, a hybrid with translucent skin, whose limbs knew how to amaze with their magnificent sentimental horrors.

MACHINA/The Machines Of God.

Is it my mind wandering, or does this album speak to you in the silence of the night?
It’s a specter, a ghost to be precise, a cold ghost dressed in dark garments like pitch.
Its task is to make you reflect, to embark on an extracorporeal journey between the glam and mysticism of the "so famous" My Bloody Valentine.
My bed calls me, it has a seductive voice, almost sensual. It invites me every night to hold a listen to ensure salvation through "Heavy Metal Machine".
I will wake up way too late my preacher, a wake-up suitable to smoothly insert and listen to "Try,Try,Try". But it gets really late, and it becomes almost orgasmic to take advantage of "Blues Skies Bring Tears" where one catches the echo of oceans of profound sadness.
"THis Time" reminds me that true love takes on cadaveric semblances if stopped in time.
In the midst of dozing, I peer back to the imploded voice (The Imploding Voice), which prophetically commands me to forget, regardless of wherever I might be, that the prototype my mind had voraciously captured no longer exists, and will never exist again. She. She is dead. Period.
Ask the ghost child ("Glass & The Ghost Children") what might be the reaction of the listener who feels excluded and now follows everything from a third person perspective, while courtiers gracelessly smother and torture guitars in pure purgatorial blues feedback that leads to the grave very... very... slowly, to better naturally see "WOUND" and "CRYING TREE OF MERCURY" whose branches ooze ebony mercury.
"WITH EVERY LIGHT" neither offends nor desecrates, quite the opposite of the majestic, seraphic, and magical "Blues Skies Bring Tears" in which one loses themselves to grasp the exact moment when the entire spirituality of life fails in an alchemical sunset of fantastic mutilation.

After this purgatorial journey, the soul rises to paradise, a paradise where everyone can see themselves as children, sadly smiling towards that beach, whose tide will never bring back its Body. And everything ends in the moment when adolescence was truly lived, the purest thing that should exist in the universe, more than love, unfortunately. "Age Of Innocence".

Album, I repeat, hugely underrated, snubbed, and insulted.
A great work of conjunction between the early and the late Smashing P.
The end of the album corresponds to the end of my lysergic dream.
I hope I manage to turn off the computer tonight. The violence watches me epileptically but..
I've always loved it, I swear.
Those flowers disgusted her.
There will be no more Tomorrows.