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.
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.
2017 was a miserable year. Why you may ask? Because here I am, making a freaking listicle. Laugh it up fuzzballs.
When the music talks, the body responds.