Barely 3 months after the release of their long-awaited return to form “Diurnal” album, Nine Stones Close keeps the prog foot on the prog pedal by launching an immediate follow-up that offers a darker, starker and heartfelt musical view on immortality, death, grief and pain. The line-up is exactly the same as on the previous adventure, yet the mood is tenebrous and sullen., with the dual keyboards of Brendan Eyre and Christiaan Bruin laying down mounds of atmosphere.
Spectral introduction on “Beach Walker”, a solitary coastal stroll on the inner edges of immortality, a kaleidoscope of flashing memories, echo-laced piano renderings challenged by robust rhythmic pounding, feet in the wet sand, leaving …. traces. The lead vocals are nothing more than an urgent expulsion of uttered pain, channeled through collapsing guitar shreds, a million tiny needles penetrating the soul. “Anhedonia “is not a pretty word, a life altering perception of what once was bliss, is now agony. There was once a lyric of song by the Divinyls: “There is a fine, fine line between pleasure and pain” (pronounced ‘pine” in Australian). An incomprehensible void of enjoyment, disappearance of smell, taste and touch. Only the torment of sound remains. Sonic sadness incarnate.
Bewildering the senses even further, “Binary” settles into a comfortably numb groove of endless artificiality, caught in the space between reality and despair, knowing full well that it’s also disease. A flashing tilt sign that never let’s go, cranial overload, crashing influxes of useless and useful data, all converging in an unreal funnel of reality. Profound.
The volatile cauldron that is “The Mind” is expressed by an initial acoustic guitar reference, that flips into ravaging electric explosions, amid the twirling keyboard swirls and a lumbering bass and drum steamroller. Switching back to an exhausted piano fluttering and seemingly upcoming relaxation. The segue into the reverential “Walk Towards the Sun”, a hint of hopeful salvation at the very least, perhaps buoyed by the need to focus on the road ahead, courageously fighting for some peace, sleepwalking for the sake of one’s soul.
The focus now shifts to the overtly electronic miasma of “Landwaster”, suitably ghostly and vaporous, laden with dysrhythmic concussion. Aio’s astonishing vocals are both gruesome and troubling, highly theatrical and yet musically minimalist, as if caught between two diaphanous worlds, unsure and unwilling. Very, very dark. Oh my! The title says it all:” The Moment I Stop Caring”, a brief, exclusively acoustic guitar reflection on surrender. After having stopped smiling, laughing, eating and sleeping, capitulation arrives in the form of stopping to care, not out of indifference but rather of a yearning for even a short moment of survival. Why? Because the “Hole” remains, that inner expanse now left fissured and broken with a huge round void of unfathomable loss, wrapped in guilt, sorrow and begging for forgiveness. The beauty of this track is impossible to describe, and perhaps not even needed for those of us who have listened to their inner voice when their loved ones have passed, bewildered, lonely and scarred.
The epic finale comes to the altar on “Plastic Animals”, a nearly 9 minutes of reflection on the past, at times even returning to infancy, scouring the memory banks for clues, vindication, acceptance and relief. Asking solitary questions and finding solitary answers, trying to decipher the meaning and validity of ‘Who Am I’. A perpetual quest, of that there is no doubt. The insistent arrangement illustrates the sweeping challenges that face us all, especially emotionally, pretty much over our shoulder until our very last breath. The answer arriving then and there, in a nano second of final revelation.
As with the latest Ruby Dawn album, this is a tough but rewarding listen, with barely suppressed emotions that disturb, confound and ultimately free the inner pain that makes us all human.
5 Pilgrimages of Eternity
