One day we’ll stop fluttering our charred 'lashes in your direction, glowing acolytes, we promise – but for now, it’s Friday night (threshed, deathless Friday night). About to head once more for the mire of drunken London, we flutter, gobs agape, teeth on parade, knowing not how to do anything other than bring you something else vaguely Italo, something else vaguely disco.

Except it’s not – not at the outset anyway, which seems to swelter in what remains of thiz dayz rayz. No; at the outset Hecuba seem bottom half-buried beneath fading liquid – water, sweat, Amontillado, whatever – as the lax mouth of Isabelle Albuquerque surveys lost gulls and fragile hookers in a manner calm enough to make the mind’s eye section her off behind the blacked-out window of an ailing Capri. For the most part, 'Baltimore's a dark-eyed dub bound for the soft clink and sangria velvet of the private members' club, but still... it's definitely bound for somewhere.

And, first and foremost, it's bound to the sorry earth that holds it, mutilated with concrete growths and drunk ticks finding beds between the thatch of lamp-lights grown damp and splintered in the rain; bound to the sensation of passing through a maddened city; bound to the man-made-motion of star-ward ascent, grown giddy in pursuit of its own pulse, 'til - ahhh, there they are, those springing, faltering rushes of Italo-synth, we knew it all along, the disco's nothing - just an un-destination for world-weary, kohl-toxic black-holes. Suck it up and suck it in - it's out into the heat and the dirt, yet again.

Hecuba - Baltimore

Labels: music