Invisible Cities

There’s something eerily warm about being inside, surrounded by lit-up walls. So much confinement, such constricting dimensions; walls enclose space and that’s how space comes into our perception. Yet we light them up, we put a light in the space and the space is made all the more light by the walls. Enclosed light. And we make ourselves at home within the walled-area. Even when there’s no man-made walls and we’re outside, we construct them in our heads; our vision is enclosed by horizons everywhere. Natural walls: wall of sea, wall of trees, wall of fields – a city skyline momentarily imagined far away through the misty distances, yet not visible, bound to an outside world.

Confined like paintings on canvas, we treat our constriction as a platform, a stage to express and to feel and to do shit. We convince ourselves it’s a meaningful platform, a meaningful stage, a temporary time, before we walk onto the next platform, we advance to the next stage. But where’s the reason for that inclination? For me, I get a momentary sense of it from feeling like people are being creative. Can’t-put-your-finger-on-it-creative. Unconforming unconventional individual infinitely original expression. So either this fantastic album, Invisible Cities, by Andrea Guzzoleti, that has been playing softly in the background whilst I write this jibber-jabber, is genuinely creative and magical or it is simply a guy who, in 2010, thought “hey, let’s combine explicit classical music elements with electronica” or something similar, perhaps less crude. Either way, I am mesmerised. Glitch, ambient, vocal samples, grand piano, wonkiness, a trumpet, surreal pop, words, words, words, ah…

 

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George

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