The sound of intuition informed by poetry, of six strings with the underworld for a fretboard, and a solar plexus for a truss rod - equals Molloy and His Bike.
Cowboy Hades and Other Tales of the Uncanny is a sojourn into a slide guitar nether region for those who dare to differentiate sadness from death - tears in a winter cloud-covered nighttime train ride through the unlit cornfields of Wichita, from ashes under a meteorite stricken tombstone on silent Luna.
Oh Serpens Caput! = echoes eight notes and dissolves as it toggles between galloping and slithering.
Some Nights Seem Endless = a low to mid register plucked chorale of exhausted anxiety.
Random Sunday = a I-7 to IV-7 pendulum anchoring an extemporaneous reed commentary inside a blues allusion asylum.
Dream Logic = I keep wanting to stop myself but heck I'll say it, only brilliance can be in the early part of its own musical development and still simultaneously channel Syd Barret, Grant Green, Pat Methany and John Fahey. This piece is playful, flowing yet tremulous. Dreamlike yet monolithic.
Ink Storms Over Prismatic Rivers = strumming hand urgency speaking in tongues and unleashing a morse code undercurrent straight into a black halo.
Sweet Obscurity = a weary and ragged countenance seems to have made a funny face in the mirror before stepping out into a ghost town. It's sad and happy as it serenades possible ectoplasm.
Cowboy Hades = it's 12 high noon. And there's a solar eclipse. No wait, it's a black hole. The Devil Went Down to Georgia, but Georgia is swallowed up. Only Cowboy Hades stands remaining to serenade the saloon of forlorn souls.
Walking in Circles = I relate very much to the topic of relationship difficulty. It is eloquently reconfigured into acoustic guitar arpeggios
sometimes blanketing and at other times dancing around a narration that calls to mind a contemporary couple standing in for
the Blair Witch Project search party - haunted not by ephemeral vectors but by out-of-ordered earthen concerns.
I See Rust In Your Future = with the pacing of a requiem but with a poem's concision, Molloy closes, not with a bang, and not with a whimper, for both of these are inversely related renditions of the grandiose. No, the last song here exudes a reserve, a moderation of emotion - emanating not from the high hills, not from the quicksand valleys, but the middle ground of the Underworld.
Max Go |
