U.S. Christmas
Run Thick In The Night

"The Night". Endless run in the night. From the hill, like a wolf wounded by the hunter, he leaves traces on the ground. Exhausted, he lies down on the terrain. Scent of wet leaves in the nostrils. Anthropomorphic shadows of centuries-old totem-trees loom menacingly over the beach. From his eyes, two small tributaries flow towards his lake of origin, an old pockmarked volcanic crater. The opposite shore puts on its evening dress. The makeup is heavy, and the trembling of the lights filtered through the mist appears devoid of vitality, accentuating the value of friendly solitude. It is the night he wishes his heart would explode from his chest, perhaps to find a home in the cosmos. "Wolf of Anareta".

All night he sought the mother of all mothers, and the Oedipus complex intensified more and more. Wild and furious, he curses, driving his fingers into the cold and damp sand with the intent to wound. He wants to feel. He wants the core. He wants to know if it's true that it's so burning. He wants to burn his own flesh to feel if he exists. He wants to merge with Her. "Fire Is Sleeping". But Mother Earth seems reluctant to communicate, detached, she doesn't respond. The wind, like a pickpocket in the dark, steals the sand trapped in his fist. Flowing time that triggers the mental retrieval machine of past mistakes. Desire, humiliation, and frustration: human emotions. Revenge and self-exile: human consequences.

"The Leonids". In the dark, he builds the steps. All night he works with artisan humility, the cosmic carpenter. Once the work is done, he puts on the clothes of the bomb technician. And one by one, the steps pulverize, erasing the constructed passage. "The Moon in Flesh and Bones". The space child hermit now sits on his lunar throne and observes. And the mother of all mothers is his. He takes her in his hand, eclipses her with his palm, and holds her between two fingers like a coin of insignificant value. Finally, his heart can explode, lighting up for a moment, then falling behind the sun.

U.S. Christmas, invent nothing. But they can make you bob your head between the interstellar progressions and the melancholic off-key melodies that strongly characterize this album. Christmas in August, why not?

Ps: I apologize for the non-review.