Mouth breathes in again, having forgotten, as we all do sometimes, that something which is so important. Essential. And with each breath? A pulse, an om, a bass, Ament. Vedder accompanies:
Moving from the mad love of Sylvia Plath to morbid memories of family, Gainsbourg waxes love and death while SebastiAn works, needle and hammer, to bring this poetry alive.
Plant’s voice, thus, moved from black women wailing and tall tales of a rambler to the slow, low burning insights of a man who has seen the rock ‘n’ roll world for all it’s worth, all it’s false promise, all it’s real excess.
Sleep only had time for the ethereal, the subconscious tangential, not time for the latency of metal. Sleep only had time for dreams and, conveniently, the last few days boiled down to nothing but Fleetwood Mac on repeat.
The truth of the matter is, between Barnett mimicking Vile’s fingerpicking flightiness and Vile imitating Barnett’s laidback chordal quirkiness, it sounds like the artists don’t want to be known for what they do.
That creature is Robert Plant. In the water is Dreamland. As a record, it is a question. As an answer, it is a word: yes.
Remembering the first time the heart skipped a beat may pose a challenge. But remembering the first time the xx induced my heart to swallow itself whole? Not a damn problem.