a lost cause. You'd like your floor and furniture to be tidy, break your
neck in impossible ways, but fighting against dust is completely useless.
There isn't much time remained - something must be done: you brush everything
under a carpet, hoping nobody will notice.
The room is now full of people, everything's going according to plan;
suddenly - it happens. Someone stumbles upon the carpet and a cloud of
dust rises, its small particles dancing and posing around the house once
You have to accept your responsibility.
There's no escape from sound fragments, either; for sure you can't hide
what floats in the air. On the contrary, I love letting Ernesto Rodrigues,
Manuel Mota and Gabriel Paiuk's music penetrate my system, place on my
body surface - I can even smell it. When a player sets his instrumental
goal like this trio do, music transforms and gets dissipative; no fix
or trick will allow catching their wounded, faintly coloured timbral butterflies
or will avoid them finding a secure place in that precise moment of life.
The three don't need to nuke - a few well placed concepts are enough to
implant a cancer into conventional way of playing, all for our listening
satisfaction. Rodrigues breathes through wood and strings, evoking strange
phrases like a scratched-from-the-lamp genius; Mota lets his eyeballs
bouncing down on the fretboard, fingering lightly and nailing any crackle
he finds in an otherwise perfectly clean tone; Paiuk appears like an old
sage, his spare chords and notes as a constant admonition not to forget
where we all come from - an elocution mixing freedom and self constraint.
Suddenly, the music's absent. The record's over. I'm left with a shimmering,
abrasive, gentle, intangible aural dust all over my place.
Fighting against it will be a lost cause.
Outside, a rain storm tells me I'm so small - like a tiny particle. Furthermore,
I can't dance or float in the air, for that matter.