My Review: Radiohead - Street Spirit (Fade out)

 My Review 

Radiohead - Street Spirit (Fade Out)

"No one accepts chance as the cause of their success, only their failure."

NASSIM NICHOLAS TALEB

Don't take a casual approach to life. Randomness leads to fatality.

(Jim Rohn)

There is a form of control over the will that often gives way under the wings of chance and fate: you cannot understand how certain things have occurred, perhaps not even why.

And you end up with sensations that you caress because, although they cause you pain, you feel they are precious.

Having lost the root, the ancient origin, you continue to live with mysteries that only apparently reveal what happened, as if a Matryoshka doll had been closed with a padlock: nothing can reveal its contents.

This occurred to a song, the one by Radiohead that closed their troubled second album The Bends.

It came as an impersonal and impetuous compactness, as cyclic exaltation in a state of trance, as the sound of blood speaking an unknown language.

Street Spirit is the beauty able to pierce because, as a sweaty song stained with pain, it pillories us: you cannot oppose sadness in its total expansion and, like a skittle, you fall into the sacred void of two hundred and fifty-four infinite seconds.

Forced to remain in the complexity of a repeated harmonic turn and catalyst of every thought. You cannot escape  from those crescendos, those guitars that, by increasing, handcuff your breath, in the same way as that voice which, like an angel with a heavy thought, exhausts you and takes away your strength.

It is the mystery that perseveres and forces the thought to feed on dispersions and a tireless trudging with the capacity to nourish an irrational need for masochism.

Like a mantra which seduces by perfection, it becomes a fraction without limits, you find yourself communicating to your unconscious that not understanding hurts more than understanding, in this rigid sound structure which makes us grieve and savour death in advance, with its melancholy like a latex glove that has stuck to the breath.

And then you become a zigzagging hallucination: each note is a pillar against which you bang your head, a labyrinth of beauty that bites your breath and cements it for eternity.

Radiohead create a narrow tube in which to fall and the direction can only be the arid zone of joy, which, defeated, leaves the flag with the inscription "Street Spirit" on the ground: from there you cannot move and nothing can fade, nothing can find its disintegration.

It is a song that gives thorns to the eyes, the ears, the upper and lower limbs, a watchful coma, conscious but without the possibility of uttering a single word.

You listen to it to die from it.

When a song is a non-place, unscented and grey-skinned, it becomes, by definition, unbearable but essential, like a drug that you have not chosen to inject yourself with, but whose effects you somehow enjoy.

However, it is not a journey that you take when you listen to it, there are no nice clothes and you experience a total absence of privileges and benefits.

It is a pop torture that invades, absorbs and dries your mental beats like those of your heart, to become the eternal incubator which will preserve you from physical ageing but leave your cells already worn out, heroic, exhausted.

I read Ben Okri's novel 'The Famished Road', from which Thom Yorke said he drew inspiration. A mighty read, full of claws and thorns, where a decadent original force finds a hiding place to rest. And this is what happens in this song, which in the end becomes a rest, not a serene one, a missing refreshment that when we wake up measures all our tiredness.

Because it can't be said otherwise: some listenings tire you out so much that you don't even have the strength to scold them.

Played in A minor, the opening arpeggio finds supporters that make it unassailable, unquestionable, and Thom's words, confused and hallucinated, complete the mystery that not only hovers but actually screams its existence.

And when the violin shows its elegant dress and the drums enter like a sweet, curmudgeonly fist, here everything comes together for eternity and beyond: you know your listening will never die.

The vocal melodies become abysses with the arrow pointing to the sky, like the only possible direction.

After their debut album, Radiohead escaped from the clichés of time and created their own cavern where Street Spirit is the deepest and most inaccessible point: there is no reason to understand its meaning, we just have to submit to it without any comment.

There is a nihilistic, heavy form, full of dust and rust in this track and it is perhaps in all of this that the most unbearable point of their artistic journey remains, the one that not only closed their second work but their veins, forever.

And it was obligatory for them, as for us, to die from it in order to resurrect with other identities, the only possible way to escape its diabolical enchantment.

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

10th March 2022

https://music.apple.com/gb/album/street-spirit-fade-out/1097862703?i=1097863295

https://open.spotify.com/track/2QwObYJWyJTiozvs0RI7CF?si=Nwtt6m5QSb6-4JrfHs4xFg

My Review: Morrissey - Speedway

 My Review 

Morrissey - Speedway

A pole.

A wall.

A defence.

And if you think about it, it's all about wanting to be the effective attack that has the desired effect.

It is the decadence of a feeling that is increasingly being enlarged.

There are embankments to be conquered, with a hard and insensitive skin, as further support in this destructive phase.

Then there is Morrissey, the poet whose mind is always full of black waves and whose stocks are running low, but still resistant.

Who has the faithful look of someone who can promise loyalty to himself, till the last drop of his strength.

In his album Vauxhall and I, he decides that death and human defeat are worthy of his pen, of his voice that is increasingly inclined to cling to pain and to describe decadence with its splendid and at the same time atrocious irony.

Here then that the pole, the wall, the defence are the perfect instruments of his involvement in events that have wounded and upset him.

But it is precisely from the attacks he has suffered that the poet from Stretford has built his anti-atomic bunker, with wheels...

Yes, because his is not a passive defence and he decides to take it outside, in that world that is now so inhospitable to him.

And in the cellar of his defence, in the last visible and audible location he places Speedway, the electric saw and the hammer that will make him triumph.

Joylessly.

One is shocked by the way his old peculiar feature, dating back to The Smiths (deep lyrics over music that may not be heavy), is here consigned to the past.

It is time for an atmosphere that is a nail as rusty and taut as his voice, as his words, for a compact whole that can make his inner scream unmistakable. 

And when you are surrounded by so much sadness, by protests that become sharp tears, you can only fall to the ground knowing that it will be his own hand that will tell you that "In my own strange way

I've always been true to you" and pull you to his side. 

A mysterious act in which we find ourselves first condemned and then saved by him. 

But this is his root, his inseparable core, to which many may find it difficult to be faithful.

And this is not a song, an artistic creation that can lead to a series of reflections.

Absolutely not.

Speedway is the laceration that becomes sound with a minimal but impetuous melody, a journey into his wounds to which he gives access for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds of pure amniotic delirium, because this atmosphere seems to come from the womb of a deep suffering, which always fertilises itself...

An electric current should bring light, strength, it should help, console, fortify, remove fear.

And only in Speedway all this happens while also bringing its opposite, generating a massive series of surrendered and swampy forces, like a slime that fattens despair.

The song is definitely a manifestation of how the private sphere coincides with the public one, in a courageous act of demonstration in which the aim is to show that one's vulnerability does not mean surrendering helplessly to the enemy.

And that in reality it is even greater than it is supposed to be.

But within its boundaries there are impenetrable coffers. 

It starts with his inspiration and then meets guitars with nails waiting to become bloody.

An electric saw displaces, stuns and makes us restless souls.

Everything sounds unique and majestic from the start, in this downward increase, as if every contradiction should find its place in the music and the words.

Between e-bow and the rhythmic electric guitar and the bass as the faithful squire of the sonic mystery, Morrissey for his part decides to fix his criticism, irony and wind of madness forever in melancholic vocals with clenched teeth, gnashing, coughing up with elegance the impurities that have tried to intoxicate him.

And it is a race that sets out to leave us behind, to defeat us, to let us know that the coat in which he has closed himself forever will never be reached.

They are words like an earthquake that wants to be gentle: out of politeness, because after all, no wound of his can become gratuitous violence. 

There is no need for him to turn up the volume at all: the words do it, the drumming does it, stopping for a moment, amplifying the sense of free fall into which the song throws us without ever making us doubt. 

It's a continuous punch with his wounded knuckles giving us weeping blood but not prone to self-pity.

And that electric saw is a dagger that remains in our ears, constantly, even in its absence.

It is an almost total confession: the certainty remains that something is left inside him. The then 35-year-old Morrissey showed that his wisdom and propulsive ability to bring out anger could co-exist, to get straight to our hearts.

The guitars of Alan Whyte and Boz Boorer are the waterfall that freezes the skin, Jonny Bridgwood's bass is a sponge full of water that empties into Woodie Taylor's powerful drumming, for a song with a dense, chaotic, poignant, tribal ending.

A track that concludes the album in a funereal way: it almost seems as if he blows out every candle in our lives one by one, revealing reality to us, to make us get used to the darkness that he is already consciously living in.

Everything is one long lightning bolt that explodes in a thunderclap that finds its apotheosis in the final drumming, shattering the senses devastated by his words.

This union of lyrics and music ultimately turns out to be the testament of a period that ended with this song: at that time he was contemplating his departure from the scene, but it was with these words and musical notes that we knew the farewell would be postponed. 

Perhaps it remains his most resounding and devastating song, but it is not a cause for jubilation or celebration: it is a hearse born of those lightning bolts turned to thunder.

And even today our ears and minds ache because the poet no longer has gladioli in his pockets, but the turbulent phenomena of the sky...

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

March 7 2022

https://music.apple.com/gb/album/speedway-2014-remaster/859942535?i=859942556

https://open.spotify.com/track/7wVwKqDtZ5EZHghJ82XGw9?si=IGL63--RQm2vz2ylOaXxiQ

La mia Recensione: Morrissey - Speedway

 La mia Recensione 

Morrissey - Speedway

Un palo.

Un muro.

Una difesa.

E a pensarci bene è tutto un voler essere l’attacco efficace che sortisce l’effetto desiderato.

È la decadenza di un sentire sempre più in fase di allargamento.

Ci sono argini da conquistare, con la pelle dura e insensibile, come ulteriore appoggio in questa fase distruttiva.

Poi c’è Morrissey, il poeta con la mente sempre piena di onde nere e le scorte in esaurimento, ma ancora resistente.

Che ha lo sguardo fedele di chi può promettere la fedeltà a se stesso, sino all’ultima goccia della sua forza.

Nel suo album Vauxhall and I decide che la morte e la disfatta umana siano meritevoli della sua penna, della sua voce sempre più incline ad appiccicarsi al dolore e a descrivere la decadenza con la sua splendida e al contempo atroce ironia.

Ecco allora il palo, il muro, la difesa, essere i perfetti strumenti del suo essere implicato in vicende che l’hanno ferito e sconvolto.

Ma è proprio dagli attacchi subiti che il poeta di Stretford ha costruito il suo bunker antiatomico, con le ruote…

Sì perché la sua non è una difesa passiva e decide di portarla fuori, in quel mondo ormai per lui così inospitale.

E nella cantina della sua difesa, all’ultimo posto visibile e udibile piazza Speedway, la sega  elettrica ed il martello che lo faranno trionfare.

Senza gioia.

Si rimane sconvolti da come il suo antico marchio, di Smithsiana memoria (testi profondi su musiche che possono essere non pesanti), qui venga consegnato al passato.

È tempo di una atmosfera che sia un chiodo arrugginito e teso come la sua voce, come le sue parole, per un insieme compatto che possa rendere inequivocabile il suo urlo interiore. 

E quando sei avvolto da cotanta tristezza, da contestazioni che diventano lacrime appuntite, non puoi che cadere per terra sapendo che sarà la sua stessa mano a dirti che “In my own strange way

I've always been true to you” e tirarti dalla sua parte. 

Un misterioso atto nel quale ci troviamo prima condannati e poi salvati da lui stesso. 

Ma questa è la sua radice, il suo nucleo inscindibile, a cui per molti può risultare difficile essere fedeli.

E questa non è una canzone, un fare artistico che può condurre ad una serie di riflessioni.

Assolutamente no.

Speedway è la lacerazione che diventa suono dalla melodia minimale ma impetuosa, un viaggio nelle sue ferite a cui concede accesso per quattro minuti e ventisette secondi di puro delirio amniotico, perché questa atmosfera sembra provenire dal grembo di una profonda sofferenza, sempre incinta di se stessa…

Una corrente elettrica dovrebbe portare luce, forza, aiutare, consolare, fortificare, togliere la paura.

E accade solo in Speedway che tutto questo avvenga portando anche il suo opposto, generando una serie massiccia di forze arrese e paludose, come una melma che ingrassa lo sconforto.

Il brano è decisamente la manifestazione di come la sfera privata coincida con quella pubblica, in un coraggioso atto dimostrativo nel quale l’obiettivo è mostrare come la propria vulnerabilità non significhi consegnarsi inermi al nemico.

E che in realtà è ancora più grande di quella supposta.

Ma nei suoi confini esistono forzieri impenetrabili. 

Si parte dalla sua inspirazione per poi incontrare chitarre con le unghie in attesa di divenire cruente.

Una sega elettrica spiazza, stordisce e ci rende anime irrequiete.

Tutto suona unico e maestoso sin dall’inizio, in questo lievitare verso il basso, come se ogni contraddizione dovesse trovare luogo nella musica e nelle parole.

Tra e-bow e chitarra elettrica ritmica ed il basso come fedele scudiero del mistero sonico, Morrissey dal canto suo decide di fissare per sempre la sua critica, l’ironia ed il vento di follia in un cantato malinconico coi denti serrati, digrignando, tossendo con eleganza le impurità che hanno cercato di intossicarlo.

Ed è una corsa che parte per avere l’intenzione di lasciarci indietro, per sconfiggerci, per farci sapere che non sarà mai raggiungibile il cappotto nel quale si è chiuso per sempre.

Sono parole come un terremoto che vuole essere gentile: per educazione, perché in fondo nessuna sua ferita può divenire violenza gratuita. 

Non c’è bisogno alcuno per lui di alzare il volume: lo fanno le parole, lo fa il drumming che si ferma per un attimo, ampliando il senso di caduta libera nel quale la canzone ci getta senza farci dubitare mai. 

È un pugno continuo con le sue nocche ferite che ci regalano un sangue piangente ma non incline alla autocommiserazione.

E quella sega elettrica è un pugnale che rimane nelle nostre orecchie, costantemente, anche in sua assenza.

È una confessione quasi totale: rimane la certezza che qualcosa sia rimasto dentro di sé.

Quello che all’epoca era il 35enne Morrissey mostrava che la sua saggezza e la capacità propulsiva di mettere in evidenza la rabbia potevano coesistere, per arrivare dritto al nostro cuore.

Le chitarre di Alan Whyte e Boz Boorer sono la cascata che gela la pelle, il basso di Jonny Bridgwood è una spugna pregna di acqua che si svuota nel drumming potente di Woodie Taylor, per un brano dal finale denso, caotico, struggente, tribale.

Una canzone che conclude l’album con fare funereo: sembra quasi che lui spenga una ad una ogni candela del nostro vivere, svelandoci la realtà, per farci abituare al buio che sta già vivendo, coscientemente.

Tutto è un lungo fulmine che esplode in un tuono che trova nel drumming finale la sua apoteosi, sconquassando i sensi devastati dalle sue parole.

Questa unione tra il testo e la musica alla fine risulta essere il testamento di un periodo che si è concluso proprio con questa canzone: a quel tempo lui meditava l’uscita di scena, ma fu proprio con queste parole e le note musicali che avemmo la certezza che l’addio sarebbe stato posticipato. 

Forse rimane la sua canzone più strepitosa e devastante, ma non è motivo di giubilo o di celebrazioni: è un carro funebre nato da quei fulmini divenuti tuoni.

E ancora oggi siamo con le orecchie e la mente doloranti perché il poeta non ha più gladioli nelle sue tasche, ma i fenomeni turbolenti del cielo…

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

7 Marzo 2022

https://open.spotify.com/track/7wVwKqDtZ5EZHghJ82XGw9?si=3KFeRzOZQGy4-ZGusuYtOg

https://music.apple.com/gb/album/speedway-2014-remaster/859942535?i=859942556

My review: The Maitlands - Live in Salford, March 2022

My review

The Maitlands live in Salford

5 March 2022

Every city has its own delays to deal with, because there are traumas and difficulties to pay attention to.

Manchester is no exception.

And about an aspect of music interest and sharing, the issue increases given its importance.

Life goes on and music comes back to show its face, its muscles, its passion, its ardour, its need, its pride, its need to legitimise itself.

Among them are The Maitlands, a splendid reality that does not want excessive visibility, nor does it seek approval whatever: it exists for the pleasure of it, without ambitions or exaggerated dreams.

Their joy lies in writing songs and playing whenever possible.

At a time when the line-up is changing, some of the new members were not in time to play with the band tonight.

In a four-piece line-up, but with a sound that seemed to be the product of more musicians, they showed all their class with a nine-song set at the Eagle Inn on the Salford/Manchester border, playing in front of an attentive and amused audience.

Having appeared as a Special Guest for a couple of songs at Academy 3 in August 2020, Heavy Salad guitarist Rob Glennie is now a permanent member of The Maitlands and his contribution strengthens the sound of the quartet, whose set shook, moved and led attendees to an articulate thought, given the depth of Carl's lyrics.

The three members of the line-up, Carl L. Ingram, Saul Padraig Gerrard and Matt Byrne, for their part, were totally at ease and able to express their talent, having found in Rob the best ally.

A perfect setlist that combined singles and lesser known songs with extreme fluidity and the ability to keep the tension and beauty of their compositions constant.

Mention must be made of the opener "Dead Slow", which after 4 years seems even fresher and able to show the band's endless musical roots, and of the always clamorous "When it Rains, it Pours", an atomic ride which, thanks to Matt's granitic bass, Rob's twisted and sensual guitar and Saul's acid drumming, allows Carl's singing to bring out his powerful and catchy melodic line.

All the songs demonstrate their total disregard for the need of other bands to feel part of a hypothetical Manchester music scene.

They wisely go in a different direction, drawing from the globe and different decades to make their music something compact and not morbidly tied to the Mancunian city.

That’s the sort of concerts that brings good cheer, a predisposition towards unquestionable artistic skill and joy, because their ability to be on stage is a robust smile capable of taking root in the heart.

Welcome back!

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

March 6th, 2022

La mia recensione: The Maitlands - Live in Salford March 2022

 La mia recensione

The Maitlands live in Salford

5 Marzo 2022

Ogni città ha le sue lentezze da gestire, perché vi sono traumi e difficoltà cui prestare attenzioni.

Quella di Manchester non fa eccezione.

E su un aspetto di interesse e condivisione della musica la problematica aumenta vista la sua importanza.

La vita continua e la musica torna a mostrare il suo viso, i suoi muscoli, i suoi impeti, l’ardore, il bisogno, la fierezza, la necessità di legittimarsi.

Tra questi vi sono The Maitlands, una splendida realtà che non desidera eccessiva visibilità, né cerca consensi a prescindere: esiste per il piacere di farlo, senza velleità o sogni esagerati.

La loro gioia sta nello scrivere canzoni e suonare quando è possibile.

In un momento nel quale la line-up sta mutando, alcuni dei nuovi membri non hanno fatto in tempo a suonare con la band stasera.

In una formazione a quattro, ma con un suono che sembrava essere il frutto di più musicisti, hanno dimostrato tutta la loro classe con un set di nove canzoni all’Eagle Inn, al confine tra Salford e Manchester, suonando per una platea di persone attente e divertite.

Dopo aver partecipato come Special Guest per un paio di canzoni all’Accademy 3 nell’agosto del 2020, Rob Glennie, chitarrista dei Heavy Salad, fa ormai parte in pianta stabile dei Maitlands ed il suo contributo irrobustisce il suono del quartetto che nel loro set ha scosso, emozionato e condotto i partecipanti ad un pensiero articolato, visto lo spessore dei testi di Carl.

I tre componenti della formazione, Carl L. Ingram, Saul  Padraig Gerrard e Matt Byrne, da parte loro, sono totalmente a loro agio e capaci di esprimere il loro talento avendo trovato in Rob il migliore alleato.

Una scaletta perfetta che ha saputo unire i singoli e canzoni meno note con estrema fluidità e capacità di tenere costante la tensione e la bellezza delle loro composizioni.

Citazione d’obbligo per la opener “Dead Slow”, che dopo 4 anni sembra ancora più fresca e capace di mostrare le infinite radici musicali della band, e per la sempre clamorosa “When it Rains, it Pours”, cavalcata atomica che grazie al basso granitico di Matt, alla chitarra sghemba e sensuale di Rob e al drumming acido di Saul permette al cantato di Carl di esibire la sua linea melodica potente e accattivante.

Tutte le canzoni palesano il totale disinteresse della band verso il bisogno che invece dimostrano altri gruppi nei confronti del sentirsi parte di una ipotetica scena musicale di Manchester.

Loro, saggiamente, vanno in una diversa direzione, pescando nel globo terrestre e in decadi diverse per fare della loro musica qualcosa di compatto e non legato in modo morboso alla città Mancuniana.

Sono concerti come questi che portano buonumore, la predisposizione all’accoglienza verso abilità artistiche indiscutibili e la gioia, perché la loro capacità di stare sul palco è un sorriso robusto che sa come mettere le radici nel cuore.

Bentornati!

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

6 Marzo 2022

My Review: Rover - Rover

 My Review 

Rover - Rover

The clock of sadness has hands that are always moving, because they go on even when we would like them to be in a state of paralysis. But time has decided for them, as for itself.

When despair, bitterness, restlessness and a sense of bewilderment come together and go to it, then everything is inevitable: we will have to reflect with a heavy head and in a constant daze.

Timothée Régnier is a French soul, with somatic traits conspicuously connected to his music, an intoxicating but often indigestible demijohn of wine, especially for those who prefer water that makes everything flow quickly.

Without commitment.

Today I am talking about his debut album, a bender that dulls superficial people, with no possibility of feeling any escape.

It is a striptease of roses falling naked to the ground, having already seen the tears dry up. He has shown so much of himself undressing that one can feel him trembling before those who avoid him, because facing the torments of an individual is always an exercise one prefers to avoid.

Yet there are textures that know softness, I would even say lightness, between the folds of an album that, while living among notes as a nebula in the process of crashing, is able to show its wake, where the colours have meaning, as an extreme and necessary opposition.

To listen to this work is to walk the path in the half-light that will never have mass sharing impulses, because where there is turbulence one always takes the closest road. The fear of the mind also defeats the contradictions of the heart.

Timothée is a champion without sabres, without excessive armaments, without the attitude of attack. He looks resigned but he is not.

It is a universe with its own oxygen, with a taste of death, which enchants with its authenticity. That's a good start.

And if you have thoughts waiting to be triggered, rest assured that the almost pop-like black knight will be able to make them jump up, without the bulletproof vest, because he defies doors since he knows he can slam them.

An album that is destined for eternity, I was talking about time and hour-hands, remember? 

Listening to it, one realises how the musical genres that are sketched out are predisposed to agglomerate in the translucent space of bewilderment, like a pagan festival in the parvis of a burning church.

To listen to the 12 hour-hands is to sit on what is moving, with a feeling of uncomfortableness but also of an inexplicable effervescence that is so elegant, certainly out of this current time, so heedless of those who are slow and interested in introspection.

OK, now we start to visit the seconds on this watch, which seems more an hourglass if you look closely...

Song by song

Aqualast

The first hour-hand has the guitar strings tuned to Radiohead's D Major, while the voice, like a colt without direction or masters, takes a ride among a varied originality and almost hidden winks at cursed singers well covered by their collars. Traces of Beatles show the depth of non-erasable imprints. And it is a psychedelic attitude that comes through and envelops.

Remember 

The second hour-hand is almost obese and rough: maybe it's the guitar, maybe it's the voice that sounds like a sheet of metal falling from the sky, in an incredibly soft flight.

The tons of sadness and bitterness slip away to hide, but they do not have time: you can clearly see them.

A refrain that you sing crying and then you run with this bass, along with voices of medieval virgins, so you can feel the weight of the pain...

Tonight

The third hour-hand, envious of the second one, is also running, with guitars like grenades that explode in a circular way, reminding us of Kiss with their most famous song.

But later everything becomes terribly serious, with keyboards freezing all enthusiasm and the words, which alone would be enough to swallow every nascent tear, ending up falling into the void. And the falsetto flies away.

Then we see Jeff Buckley, the sad and beautiful one.

Queen Of The Fools

With the fourth hour-hand we find the sound poetry of Neil Hannon and his Divine Comedy, for an almost psychedelic trip, certainly coloured by the French attitude to hide the admiration for the pop side of the Land of Albion.

The song darts, dances, with words of metal, wise, crude, like stone dripping oxygen now at the end of its strength. And all that remains is the painting of happy fools and their Queen...

Wedding Bells

Everything falls apart with the fifth hour-hand: Timothée removes the veil of bitterness and gives his nakedness the relief of collapse, starting with the heavy tone of his voice, which seeks the murky with its low register.

Like an old Pulp theatrical sound research, everything becomes a recitative that invades, steals and dies among emotions sitting above the spectral notes of a powerful piano and the guitar that with a few hints shatters us, while the bass allows itself that softness which at the end makes us sigh.

Lou

Take guitars, a bass, keyboards, drums and a voice like an excited yawn: you'll start to see the feathers of the sixth hour-hand.

Everything seems to be a sudden sunshine here: please don't be naive and superficial, there's a treatise of melancholy performing in these minutes with mastery and cunning, because only fools will be allowed to delude themselves.

We are in the 1960s, like a sudden dive, on the north coast of the United States, but in the belly of the song France claims its portion of consideration.

Silver

Hour-hand number 7.

The number of mystery knows swaggering waves of dusty guitars, coming from the south of the USA, with shoes full of dust given by the unstoppable path of the good Timothée who here grants the angels of time a little light.

But please push to the limit your ears: the slide guitar is a killer, it takes the French singer's heart and sends it down to hell with it...

Champagne

Rufus Wainwright makes a phone call: for the eighth hour-hand he wants to ride time and appears, Timothée spreads his arms in a full welcome and everything vibrates between the keyboards and the bass kissing happily, while the song takes us to Wales to have tea with Gorky's Zygotic Mynci...

Carry on

The power shows itself at the beginning of the ninth hour-hand: it lasts for a very short time, everything has to be anaesthetised, you have to get into the dress of a desperation that has little strength, with the rays of the sun that can't show themselves and everything goes back into the dress of a desperate story that colours this voice with a storm, which more than ever becomes dramatic and intrusive. The guitars sketch notes of advancing darkness and the turbulence of the simple keyboards make our listening a magnetic act.

Late Night Love

What you hear at the beginning sounds like hands, fast, with anxiety on the skin. They are the tenth.

Like a modern funeral march, everything becomes a long closing, the voice sounds like that of a Tom McRae with sadness down his vocal cords. 

The whole is a wound, the music like a modern mourning, while trying to be a living spark, everything unknowingly dies instead.

Full Of Grace 

Eleventh hour-hand: the guitar like a drunken step stuns us, then Timothée opens his mouth and everything becomes the synthesis of a folk-noir painted with a heavy rock without being metallic, a slow raid inside the needles of the voice, the atmosphere like that of a military plane with the handbrake in the sky, which is perplexed and worried.

In the black German forest the hiss of Coil with Swans negotiating the armistice of the world, while Wovenhand go out to escort.

When tragedy smells of beauty.

Father I Can't Explain 

Time decides that the last hour- hand should be allowed the illusion of sweetness, having a dowry of three minutes and eight seconds of air, it will pass very quickly.

As if Lou Reed was looking for followers and David Bowie was hinting at consent, the song is a bluesy dance step, with clean buttons and a tie. But the throbbing heart has tremors and concessions.

In conclusion.

After listening to this album you find yourself reconsidering the journey of history, what music allows you to experience and what it denies you.

Yes, ii’s true, because that explains why this artist did not achieve success. But the latter is not needed, it does not increase the value in itself, certain albums are born to stand alone but it does not mean that they are devoid of meaning and oxygen.

Those who welcome the broad forms of art will find in these hour-hands one of the concrete ways to experience time.

Alex Dematteis 

Musicshockworld 

Salford

4th March 2022

https://open.spotify.com/album/65jtY7eQJAhmCrT9JG60RX?si=VKuJeLFMRSiE9hk7T17a9A

https://music.apple.com/gb/album/rover/501793644