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If love is, in sixteenth, the shaman's encounter with the goddess, then music is, in sixteenth, love.
Music is tiny, very tiny, a puddle that reflects the rainbow, a flower that's nothing, which, as soon as you look at it for just a bit more than a moment, is no longer just that flower.
It isn't and it can't be, considering it’s us who are looking at it...
And so in our gaze, thanks to that sudden appearance, something like a wandering begins, which is again music.
Oh yes, music is a sort of dreamy walk.
"Inseguendo per un attimo il blues che fugge" said Tim Buckley, and it doesn't matter if the translation might be wrong.
Ah, I know few things that so well capture the idea of aimless wandering as this album: perhaps the best Coltrane, perhaps "Rock Bottom" by uncle Robert, or maybe certain kraut delights...
Even though here, right here, there’s something more...
Here, right here, the search (the wandering) remains within the realm of a remarkable immediacy where all, absolutely all, the soul’s music say good morning or hi how are you...
Here there’s an ensemble sound that insinuates itself under the skin, a kind of caress that leaves space for the magic of the voice.
And when the voice takes a bit of a rest, the musicians take the scene with infinite delicacy: the thousand little lights that turn on and off from Underwood’s electric guitar or the metaphysical music box sound of the vibraphone of I can't remember who.
Tim's voice I just can't, no really I can't...
Both masculine and feminine at the same time, it's like the flight of a small bird, the regal glide of whatever seems regal to you.
Like a seismograph that oscillates where we oscillate.
Like... oh enough...
Ah the funny thing is that this is a discard album, published to temper the experimentalism of the first side of "Lorca"...
A discard album, ha ha ha!!!
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