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'Ostinato', he urged. An uptight focus paired with singular direction; tears, pain and stubborn mentalities carved into the missing timbre floorboards. Another time escapes, your dacha in the frozen cantata wilds. Heads nod and give way, to a clef misplaced years ago. This looped recording process needs no summer daylight, oils or otherwise, scratching at droned soundboards, fading candles and engineers who know their place only too well. Such inability to sleep or to forget; reflections of self within post-shower puddles of sweated condensation. A captured piano lands a fatal blow in ebony, parched in the distance; whilst drums breeze and wallow through the glissando landscape, from a gallery where 'children stare with heroin eyes'. Guitars fall in and out of step, battered and weeping with the sores of polytonality and scowls of bewildered joy. Scattered throughout this tombstone apartment, his retiring voice resonates, remembers and folds. The guilt and the grieving ends soon, it is written in glee. And, to be fair, he never claimed to be perfect; this deceptive cadence. He never even claimed to be the kind of person who could put one foot in front of the other, let alone one word or note that might grace a European popular hit parade. Making no sense at all, perfectly, mistakes in rhyme and reason as we grow up, whatever age you might have been when the tapes rolled. But, why-oh-why, do we make the same errors of circumstance time and time again? It's enough reason to bow out, come the label-induced curtain coda. Pushed or fell? The one who ultimately knows will never speak, lest the illusion be revealed, and in this truth lies the root beauty and the ugly finale all at once. Encore, at last. The time has come, in edited formation.
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Talk Talk - 'After the flood' (outtake) (4.14)
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