vlock1
A slightly different tone to WOAA's work upon the grand return (and welcome back!) but still as lovely and thought-provoking as ever.
Favorite track: Betrayal Is Pale In Comparison.
Karloff
I love the change of direction in your music. As a very devoted fan of Free Jazz, I have always embraced the concept of, who knows what's coming next? I'm looking forward to more surprises. Chokma & Shalom. 🤘😎🤘
mario1984
After many wonderful ambient albums, WOAA' s sonic language changes drastically. No more ethereal atmospheres, but an electrifying mixture of many musical genres, from jazz to metal, dance, hip hop...maybe some old fan will be disappointed, but, being a musician myself, I can understand this artist, his need to experiment new sounds. This album represents a new beginning, and I like it.
The air shimmered with the heat rising off cracked asphalt, a mirage distorting the raw glow of the All-Nite Diner. Barnaby, a man whose extraordinary beard rivaled the biblical Moses, his clothes a haphazard puzzle of cast-off couture, held court beneath an archaic-looking streetlamp. His audience – a tableau ripped from a fever dream.
Ophelia, draped in an abstract-like scapular that seemed to bleed paint onto the grimy sidewalk, sipped lukewarm coffee, her magic eyes reflecting the swirling galaxies within her. Bartholomew, his beard braided with wildflowers, spoke in tongues that morphed into bird song halfway through. Beside them, Sister Agnes, a night butterfly in black leather that put the fear of God (and a healthy dose of desire) into lesser mortals, adjusted her fishnet stockings with a practiced flick. Brother Bartholomew, her companion, a man built like a redwood and clad in a tattered robe, hummed a low Gregorian chant that vibrated the dented coffee mugs.
Barnaby, a twinkle in his rheumy eyes, cleared his throat, a sound like sandpaper on granite. "Tonight, my friends," he declared, his voice a gravelly baritone, "we dissect the essence of existence with rusty spoons!". "Existence," Ophelia intoned, tracing the constellations in the sugar at the bottom of her cup, "is a mosaic of fracturing memories, a discordant soundtrack played on broken strings".
Bartholomew chirped, a chorus of sparrows erupting from his lips. Brother Bartholomew hummed a counterpoint, the Gregorian chant morphing into a mournful blues.
Sister Agnes, ever the pragmatist, tapped a stiletto against the pavement. "Existence, Barnaby, is a negotiation. You barter your sanity for a glimpse of the divine, or a decent cup of coffee." A wink, a flash of red lace beneath the leather.
Barnaby roared with laughter, a sound that startled a nearby rat. "The divine! A cosmic vending machine dispensing existential angst in thimblefuls!". Ophelia tilted her head, her voice a whisper. "Perhaps the divine is not a singular entity, but a chorus of voices, each as fleeting as a shooting star."
Bartholomew squawked in agreement, his wildflowers rustling. Brother Bartholomew responded with a booming baritone that shook the lamppost.
The conversation danced on, a thought-provoking mishmash of underground philosophy, mind-boggling poetry, and the streetlight casting long, distorted beams of light. They spoke of the meaning of dreams (Barnaby: "Portals to parallel realities!"; Ophelia: "Smithereens of fragmented past lives"). They debated the nature of time (Bartholomew: "An otherworldly accordion, ever-expanding and collapsing!"; Sister Agnes: "Just a way to keep track of bill payments").
Brother Bartholomew let out a mournful note. Sister Agnes stretched, a feline yawn escaping her painted lips. Ophelia closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. The scent of stale coffee and exhaust mingled with the last fading notes of Brother Bartholomew's chant, now tinged with an edge of something primal. Sister Agnes shifted beneath the unforgiving lamp, the leather of her corset creaking, a counterpoint to the worn softness of Bartholomew's robe.
"Existence," Barnaby continued, his gaze traveling over his motley audience, "is a hunger that gnaws at the marrow of the soul!". Ophelia tilted her chin, the abstract patterns of her scapular shifting suggestively. "Yes," she breathed, "a hunger that burns with the fire of a thousand suns, yet forever remains unquenched".
Barnaby's laugh crackled, a profane echo in the fading sanctity of the night. "The divine then must be a cruel temptress, huh! Dangles the fruits of understanding, yet always just beyond our grasp". Sister Agnes fixed Barnaby with a smoldering look, the red of her lipstick mirroring the glow above and below. "Perhaps, poet," her voice was a dark purr, "the divine resides in the very act of reaching. The yearning itself might be its own ecstasy".
Bartholomew chirped wildly, the birdsong now a frenzied chorus. It echoed the building tension, the feeling that the night hung on the precipice of something transformative.
"Transformative..." Ophelia's fingers danced over the rim of her coffee cup, a hypnotic counterpoint to her words, "Or destructive. Is not all true understanding a kind of shattering, a breaking of the self upon the jagged shores of truth?".
Barnaby met her gaze, a twinkle of something akin to hunger in his eyes. "And what of it? Should we cower from the abyss that calls our own name?". The air crackled. Brother Bartholomew's chant faded into naught, leaving only the low hum of the city and the pounding of their hearts. Agnes ran a hand slowly over her thigh, her gaze never leaving Barnaby's.
A stray cat, drawn by the intensity of it all, slunk from the fathomless shadows. Dawn was a promise on the horizon, and with it, the world would intrude, breaking their transient communion. Yet, in this charged moment, the line between deviant philosophy and barely concealed desire, the revered sacred and the unsung profane, blurred into a heady intoxicating brew.
Sister Agnes stood, the leather creaking as she moved with sinuous grace. Approaching Barnaby, she leaned close, the scent of jasmine and old leather enveloping him. "Destruction, rebirth," she whispered, her words like a caress against his ear, "are not all acts of creation born from the ashes of what came before?".
Bartholomew's birds took flight, their wings a flurry against the burgeoning dawn. His eyes, wide and unfocused, were fixed upon a point above their heads as if witnessing something unseen. Ophelia rose slowly, the paint of her scapular swirling and shifting, throbbing an internal tempest. "And what price do we pay for this creation?" Her voice trembled, "What pieces of soul barter for these fleeting glimpses of... of what?".
Barnaby's hands, gnarled and calloused, reached for Agnes, but she slipped away like smoke. "Prices?" His laugh was a rasp. "We, dear friends, have long ceased the frivolous business of keeping accounts". The cafe's lights went berserk. Sister Agnes smiled, slow and minacious. "Then perhaps, it's time then to stop talking..." She unclasped the topmost buckle of her corset, a hint of darkness revealed against the pale pre-dawn light.
Bartholomew let out a gasp, whether in ecstasy or horror was unclear. The birds spiraled up into the fading stars, a dissonant chorus. Ophelia watched, hands clenched, her breath a ragged whisper that mirrored the city's labored breathing. "And what then...?". Sister Agnes unclasped another buckle, the hiss of leather echoing in the stillness. Her gaze, as though a molten ember, locked onto Barnaby.
A primal growl escaped Bartholomew's throat, his eyes wide and unseeing. He swayed, a giant teetering on the edge of some internal cataclysm. Ophelia stood frozen, a pillar of white against the encroaching darkness, her grip on reality seeming to loosen with every passing moment.
Barnaby, his voice hoarse with desperate need, met Sister Agnes' gaze. "Here, then," he rasped, his hand reaching for hers, a bridge between madness and desire. "We shall let what society deems as sacrilegious become the sacred, in this cathedral of discarded dreams." Sister Agnes' lips curved into a ruthless smile. "Perhaps…" she purred, her hand meeting his in a brutal caress.
credits
released April 23, 2024
Envisioned and Brought into life using www.udio.com
Fantastically versatile, uniquely fascinating and all-around exciting avant-garde music that reflects genuine outsider art aesthetics at its finest. Very recommended! Wings Of An Angel
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