Releasing a new album on Valentine’s Day may seem like a cheesy idea, but it is a declaration of love for music, for music that wants to be beautiful and to be loved. Music that takes on the task of representing the best aspects of humanity, to the point of being eccentric and revolutionary in the face of the terrible spectacle of reality.
So let us live it, this moment dedicated to those who seek each other, who are willing to drive late into the night to find each other. Let us listen to this album and give it to others, full of love for music that wants to be beautiful and to be loved.
Autumn
There is an autumn for everything, for a moment in life, for a love, and even for music. You look on with great uncertainty but slowly the warm days and warm colours win you over.
Hotel Vienna
What place do hotels occupy in love? Suburban hotels with unlikely names, worn-out floors, carpets smelling of smoke, dripping old taps in the bathrooms, and the smell of damp, warped wood…
Sad Moon
It’s goodbye. What else is there to say about a farewell? When there is a farewell everything has already been said.
Soda Crackers (to Ray Carver)
You soda crackers! I remember
Raymond Carver
when I arrived here in the rain,
whipped out and alone.
How we shared the aloneness
and quiet of this house.
And the doubt that held me
from fingers to toes
as I took you out
of your cellophane wrapping
and ate you, meditatively,
at the kitchen table
that first night with cheese,
and mushroom soup.
[…]
But I tell you
the clear sunshiny
days are here, at last.
A sudden tear
The memory of a love moves so many emotions, joy, excitement, discovery, serenity, peace or beauty… But sometimes between the distant images and scents comes a sudden tear.
Driving through the night (seeking you)
How many kilometres are driven each night, driving in search of love, of a reunion, of removing a doubt, of finding warmth?
The eggs of dreams
Sweet, amazed days, with so much silence. Lying on a bed in the middle of summer, naked, serene, in their eyes the reflection of light from the bored afternoon. They make plans, and they are dreams in the form of fairy tales, ready-made stories to tell their grandchildren. They talk a lot, they seldom laugh, they tell each other lives yet to be lived, to be lived together, close together, to preserve that warmth in their bodies that winter disperses. They hold hands. Time waits outside, distracted by the white hot gravel of courtyards, by the fleeting buzzing of mason wasps, by the mute wait for the eggs of dreams to hatch.
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