"impressive soundscape, I like it
as if I would have composed IT, bravo".
Hans-Joachim Roedelius
Phase one is to me a deep dark-blue indigo soundscape, almost instantly trance-inducing. A mountain pass quite far, seen opening heavy wooden shutters, no stars and a fixed moon towering a compressed sky between green-thick slopes are conjured by the restrained chant of Pat Moonchy, richly nuanced and awesomely halo-crafted in the deep projection of the horizon. The cohesion given to the mix by discreet drones is like the transparent fog my eyes are sacrally trapped in once I decided to open the window. There Liguori's punctuations, scrapes and washes of gongs let feel the pulses of life among the trees, fungi slow accretion, nocturnal mammals roaming in the undergrowth, and his round drops of opaline cithara essential plucks are the reflex of this life perception, their presence as transcoded in the consciousness of the human viewer. In the very proximity are centipedes intricately crawling on the wall at my right, summoned by the reeds of Paul Jolly; they transmute at times, at the softest timbre and more even phrase someone is tapping at my shoulder: judging from the brownish collage hang behind it should be Kurt S. offering a cup of tea from a copper samovar. In the middle of that, temporally speaking if here time dimension is allowed to exist, a orange lamp appears climbing to the pass from the invisible valley beyond: couldn't be a shepherd (it's night you know) maybe is Bruno G. walking his long path to the castle, maybe I'm just hallucinating. In the second phase, after a descent I'm guided to explore slowmo the cellar of the house, gray-charcoal rock blocks inebriating of saltpetre, tall candles diffuse reddish and yellow light in square rooms I can just partially see through two-palms-large slits. Voice and instruments hold each other in a subtly different way, in this more enclosed reverberated
soundspace it's the ritual dance surely acted in the areas hidden to my view. Throbs at times pace the mesmerized curiosity, I sense that fingers should have touched these walls well before. Likely by pastel colors veiled maidens, maybe imprisoned by a Jean R., how much time ago?
A lingering breath of melancholic air could rise from a corridor, when you stop you can feel the pitch-black on both directions, but the fantasy goes to a proper faded end, or better a impression-lasting suspension...
Fabio Limido
Pat Moonchy - voice and synth
Paul Jolly - sax and bass clarinet
Lucky Liguori - prepared cithara and gongs
