Lie to me

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.

-- To Romance, VIII, Lord Byron

Dying, the final rays of the yellow sun struggle through immobile waves of a terra cotta-hued curtain, given perhaps a parting gift by a cat, a passing curiosity setting a motion, opening a way for their feeble glow to embrace the shiny, dust-jacketed repository lording over the room that temporarily, but without regret, anchors my sight and mind in the gloom, out of the still empty leaf seated on my lap, yet to be filled with regrets of my own.

Yes, the celebrated violin has returned, so let us fête Miss Stone and her art as the lugubrious, ponderously stately riffwork hangs above My Body, A Funeral, slowing even further, a deceitfully placid dirge, the sweetness of delicate cuts delving deeper, rougher. At last, a word. It hurts.

A sip, and a descent as you Fall With Me into a pagan desire. They sing of Alexandria of old, and you are Hypatia; I know what will befall you, how the fiery vortex of chords rains, galloping down upon your shattered speech and bone.

Single, then double, plucked vines coil 'round, so redolent of The Scarlet Garden, here, The Lies I Sire so richly bloom; watch them be caught on updrafts of strings classical and electric and I train my eyes back on so many poorly-written lines, so many dangerously transparent lies that veil the truth.

A voice tracked in cobwebs, a subconscious call to cast aside inevitable defeat. Shall I, can I, Bring Me Victory? Another line says perhaps, if it says anything at all. Another sip, a violently applied thrust through the text and the charms of somber piano contemplate the tenderness of a lover long gone, imaginary or, most devastating of all, out of arms' length. Cries dead for ages, hear the Echoes from a Hollow Soul. The wind has picked up.

The sun is down now, sculpted out of the sky; memory flees to that twilight void, carried on an undulating bassline, the transient, yet pronounced step of chords on a meandering, endless path. A Shadow Haunt, I search, through falling bows on a neck, to no avail.

Italian for 'sanctuary of blood,' Santuario di Sangue is a medieval mystery, playing with a life, crawling at seductive pace. That golden, unspoken word, birthed from the irresistible? The narrator may have found his but as I look down, I see that I have not found mine. Another crushing chord, another sip, another stroke of the pen.

A cathartic death-blast, every good novel must contain A Chapter In Loathing, riffs bordering on blackened death, The Forever People resurrected only to watch with glee as we are cast away, supplicating before Death Triumphant, a My Dying Bride daguerreotype refurbished, keys and tempo changes sewn together, an epic Frankenstein, monolithic, quietly fierce.

Quibbles? Heavy, pleasingly lethargic, yes, yet next time, s'il vous plaît, de-produce the edges, monsieurs et mademoiselles, leave them bare, exposed to the elements; permit them to corrode. Recall The Crown of the Sympathy, The Raven and the Rose, a silent dirge, then beautiful slaughter most welcome.

Treasures? Despite the lack of outright venom, save one track, vocal performance and textural dynamics are more varied than on the last long-player. Salutations and a hearty toast to new drummer Dan Mullins as well, a superior performance, sir.

Their best? Certainly not -- Turn Loose the Swans is the tyrant of Planet Misery -- and neither a reinvention but a different shade within their chosen palette -- harbor no doubt that they produce albums, not collections of songs -- and after fifty-nine minutes that bore the fruit of barely legible scribbles whose ultimate destination is a deserving pyre, a rewarding return of beautiful, cruelly generous despair. If none will love you, rest assured that she always will.