La mia prima recensione, ovvero dilettante allo sbaraglio: quindi non odiatemi per l'incompetenza musicale che potrei mostrare.
L'etichetta è la Robotic Empire, foriera di novità nel campo delle novità ovvero emocore, ma usando questo termine solo per pura convenzione. I CTTS infatti non si limitano a scopiazzare questo già abbastanza depredato genere musicale (My Chemical Romance, tanto per fare qualche nome), ma lo rielaborano in maniera semplicemente eccellente.
Anche qua è presente lo schema a due voci, una femminile ed una maschile che si intrecciano in maniera inestricabile, con una fusione pressoché perfetta delle parti scream con quelle emo, in cui ognuna necessita dell'altra, al fine di conferirle un'energia ed una rilevanza ottimale, il tutto miscelato in maniera rapidissima senza soluzione di continuità, in modo quasi caotico.
Rispetto ai Poison The Well (specie gli ultimi), che sono senza dubbio i loro principali riferimenti, le parti più tirate lo sono realmente, velocissime, alternate a melodie eccezionali, profondissime, ricche di arpeggi che blandiscono il precedentemente tramortito orecchio dell'ascoltatore, mostrandosi come autentici diamanti in un mare di magma musicale ribollente, per poi colpirlo a tradimento con altre scudisciate sonore. La voce screamo non è potente, ma rauca, maligna, conferente a queste parti un pathos davvero lugubre, mentre le sezioni lente sono comunque sofferte, ma di gusto raffinatissimo, niente di paragonabile a quelle della maggior parte dei gruppi emocore, in cui un bubblegum simil-punk viene spacciato per emo: come se un frammento degli A Perfect Circle di Mer De Noms si fosse annidato nell' anima di un gruppo metalcore.
Da segnalare Interview At The Ruins, in cui ad un'inizio lento, dall'incedere maestoso, fa seguito una esplosione di rabbia, che scivola via nel finale della canzone e nella successiva Non Objective Portrait of Karma, il cui inizio ispira una sensazione di complicità e riappacificazione con il mondo intero, ed un occhio di riguardo ai testi, in cui le tematiche adolescenzial-sessuali sono bandite.
Non vi rimane che provare: in fondo nel suo rapido alternarsi di parti sofferte a parti degne dell'Arcadia, As The Roots Undo non è nient'altro che la rappresentazione, in musica, della vita di ognuno di noi...
Elenco tracce testi samples e video
02 Same Shade as Concrete (04:28)
Rejoice, rejoice a noble birth, a prince is born.
Behold the birth of violence, beasts of fang and feather cry for our concrete rapture,
and if we beg to be put down, unto us the most inspired storm.
A princess ravaged by her prince behold; the birth of sex and distance, two frail corpses both were they, his eyes were the first to stray... every tree held fast the earth to sky.
Concrete replaces every branch and twig as they were frayed upon the birth of ambition. The heavens filled our gilded vessel with poison tears, before we drink, I propose a toast, a final prayer.
Here's to the watchers in the wood, here's to the last days, unto us a most inspired song.
Shaper, stop the music.
Halt the harp strings whose chords confuse our histories with textures.
With the disheartened chorus of a hymnal whose choir is the conviction of the starving, artless, tempted by the feast of proof that this body of work has worth.
Uncertain as the fingering of a chord torn prematurely from a piano's womb.
As we fill our precious lungs with concrete, that faithful shade, a shaper's song is stopped short- a dying breath a singing shore.
Then the only movement and the last remains of grace:
Pollen falling off the simple hinge joint leg upon the final breath of a dragonfly.
A cardinal, lost but headstrong in mid flight cries for our concrete rapture, wade...
in the water, wade. Let the flood swell, thank the storm for her tears.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will
but the fool knows what the prophets have seen, no salvation's impending.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will let the flood swell and the bodies that break we'll just float down the river. Stay tame, soft river, while we weigh our faith, stay sweet, run softly, sweet river, the fool who wades in doubt will float like concrete.
Come and fill your lungs. Come and fill your lungs.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will, let the flood swell
on the loudspeaker sermons and a parish descending.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
Let the flood swell.
03 Crowquill (02:44)
Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak loses urgency.
Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
I don't stumble into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I've got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.
04 In the Nervous Light (06:17)
Whispers invoke the artists of this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry,
blistered fingers are tending their loom.
She collects the strands to braid into life.
Logging the weft of an ageless, woven infinity, countless raw fibers are clawing the frame.
A woman's work is never done, but the final stitch has got to come,
and so three witches contend to slice the very last thread
(that you curse, curse constantly)
But nothing's immortal, and comfort is not guaranteed-
a yearling who bears our sincere passions is chosen, frozen and quivering,
like a thread in the wake of a blade.
So we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing, but that which secures a comfortable life, risk as the indication of a healing sacrifice.
Destroy the altar whose boundaries tides will never exceed, ignite the pyres underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime, and his life's work is just fading scratches in stone.
She tends the numerals, counting fingers, counting her toes.
Keeping track of the time racing, years wasting
(dance to the sound of his weight bearing back breaking)
infinite ages the length of this quilt's making.
And we dance, we dance in the stronghold...
That you curse, curse constantly, of the needle's sheen.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall in a throw frought with our decay...
From six states away, five years of guilt postmarked four days before my escape.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.
In the first nervous light of the day,
collecting the novels whose scribes sought to keep me contained.
My dad's favorite novel on top of the pile, in the self concious first light shake the memory of his smile, igniting these volumes, igniting these volumes I'm warmed by the flames.
Alter the deafening earthen tones...
In the nervous light, I dance in the nervous light and I'm warmed by the flames.
Dance to the sound of his weight bearing back fucking breaking.
Alter the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking, dictate the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking,
Alter the tone of your weight bearing back breaking, we can mend all the seams that were torn during our backs slowly breaking.
In the nervous light...
Carico i commenti... con calma
