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.
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.
The National finds themselves in that same dreamy, melancholic space—but holy hell if the music is qualifiedly defined and easy to spot.
My god, I want to give them the record Close to the Edge just to stir the band’s brain cells. Because they’re on that iron cliff between thrilling and boring progressive rock. They have the magnetic talent to stay on the safe side.