Thin White Rope
The Ruby Sea

Apathy. The cancerous sensation that grips you after a period, more or less brief, of peace of mind. You return to real life, remembering you left it there, hanging in midair, before those serene hours. Before returning to the daily routine, just a few hundred kilometers of highway away, on an early summer evening, you decide which handful of songs will keep you company. To avoid sleep, to cling to the moments left behind, still warm, hoping they'll return without too much delay. Thin White Rope, "The Ruby Sea."

Year 1991, the last glimmers of a sound born both old and young, that acid and sharp, dusty rock. The memories of Dylan revisited by a punk band in existential crisis, left on a suburban road while alcohol and malaise mix in dark lyrics. "The Ruby Sea," the usual deep but not hopeless voice of Guy Kyser, the quintessential border character; the dry drumming marks the movements. Country shakes off its hats and fringes, reclaiming the dust, amplifying the old instruments. Distortion and melody.

Pure songwriting, the pen that writes songs on paper, may not be as inspired as a few years earlier ("Moonhead"), or just around the corner, with the intimate compositions of "Sack Full Of Silver." But something makes it preferred over others. Perhaps it's the distant sound of the guitars, increasingly ethereal. Perhaps it's the progression of "Hunter's Moon", or the traditional "Bartender's Rag" with its simplicity. The same track that gives the album its title may suffice.

Or maybe it's just the now inextricable sensation of that still bright evening, on the return journey. All of this does not make the rating objective, it does not account for many aspects. A little professor would have something to say, and probably rightly so. But until I learn to vivisect music, as someone once said on these pages, I will remain naive.