“You’re a distant memory in the mind of your creator, don’t you see?”
That’s what a Jesus Alone whispers when he walks through the autumnal path of his life.
Strolling through 36 subterranean paces from their debut album ‘Neither Virtue Nor Anger’, the Roman hermits, Marco Baldassari, Marco Barzetti, Tiziano Veronese, collected engraving inches of tubular fluorescent traces, ascetic numbers, choral symbols, cryptic dates.
On the last lunar quarter, November 30th, you will be able to embrace their spiritual travel that it starts from a pause of silence, a reflective subterranean prayer, an instant captured in a collection of mortal coils within a stifling absent nostalgic frame pictured in this new LP, Memories, a prequel to N.V.N.A. and a continuation of Grace’s river of consciousness:
turquoise sky cutting the eerie winter evening,
heavy veil of a vague abode, a wooden and metal box of apparently abandoned familiar contents, where a beacon is a pale hushed guardian.
Loyal defender of a cloud of warping sounds, tenebrous post-scripts, caustic whispers.
But the defence falls on its knees, when the headphones are plugged in and the secret spell was unveiled, the miserable demons and anguished dionysiac spirits, within that abandoned Pandora’s box have already hurled themselves through the suffocating ceilings of Nostalgia’s harbour.
The first demon, the last soul to touch this earth, ‘Noah’ is ready to depart from the imminent apocalypse, embracing his faith in something not under his control, with his ark, accompanied by an austere folk march and a medieval choral, to tackle this unholy situation. In his lunatic uncertainty , moonson over his mind, dark make-up over his eyes and red lipstick over his mouth, he still has the ‘Spectrum Visionary’, funeral march of his Life, the only sound that will never abandon him.
But a moment of weakness permeates his vision, ‘Khullam’, so this grungy blond angel, feels to be abandoned by his faithful father, his intention of elevation is contrasted by his burning desire to please his most filthy human aims. But his father, from the weeping stratosphere, is sending his Ermes to soothe his troubled son murmuring ‘I’m Here’.
Here he comes now, the Lizard King embracing this avant-garde nihilistic ‘Dance of The Sun’ this inebriant pirouette, then Jean Genie jumps from the mast, slights lekker, goes to join this ‘Whiskey Train’ and even the rowing crew ‘Monks’ turn psycho, corrupted by this demonic fuzz.
But this organ-driven deranged enchantment is just an ephemeral illusion, because in a remote cursed land, behind the edgy dark stones, green greedy vixens are ready to hypnotise and seduce through this climax of mystical orgy, these shamans whispering ‘Love Again’.
It is too late, they are trapped in that sensual grim whirl, maliciously enchanted, they cannot escape it and so their desires are bent to satisfy their mistresses, shaking uncontrollably their bones, feeble bowels to the notes of that mors et amor ballad ‘Reich’.
Suddenly the sun is hidden by some harpies that cannot marry this carnal celebration, the sky is painted in grey and the dour troubadour, captain in despair, needs to leaves the profane ceremony, seeking his vowed ‘Town’.
This glitching Genesis, obscure Odyssey must go on, because nothing comes without a reason, not every sign is possibly translated in something comprehensible, so this damned poet, lone pioneer must follow what his brave heart shouts: ‘Cartaxo’.
Finally, he can behold at the edge of the horizon the golden blue promise land, ‘Heaven’, and oscillate gently like the waves behind his feet, this bitter-sweet abrasive chant, cradling his predestined fate to embrace a fecund solitude, till comes the dawn..
“When I become death, death is the seed from which I grow.“
The Abyss is not so cold while his body is smoothly drowning underground.
To begin tasting it, channel your mind through these vibrations: