The world is getting smaller or so it goes. Repercussions are fierce with a confused hysteria scattering our cultures and burying our past. Still some are leaving behind reminders of their once smaller and more intimate world shed. I’m not some xenophobe but I don’t care for many people I meet. Ignorance being my main prejudice. Sycophantic fairy dusting power shifters being the next grudged. Greed is our greatest sin but then again who is counting anyway. Not I. Lost count many millions ago. So let’s find out what to think about Carlos Casas and his latest effort Pyramid Of Skulls. Shall we try? As he goes on vacation and has the gull to call it not only a business trip for tax purposes but also sets it in frame. Dubbing it art in the pretentious enough process. All really only for monetary purposes and egotistical advancement. We might never know. All is merely conjecture before the secrets of the mind. I think the worst of most based on past lessons but to be fair let’s wipe this sordid slate I have brought up and go again freshly like cool early mornings promise new possibilities for it’s unfolding day. Carlos Casas deserves to have his work speak and not I when I know nothing yet. Okay then let’s begin our odyssey. Pyramid Of Skulls by Carlos Casas, which has been pressed on beautiful slabs of sleek vinyl thanks to the exotic hunter/ gatherer clan and L.A. record label, Discrepant. With it we go to central Asia to dance on hotter tin roofs yet. Though you may get a case of vertigo or shingles perhaps if salacious enough. I couldn’t help myself. Some garble to get me going always in between and in the meantime.
Golden-eared children sing an abode from their shrinking adobe under the sun. Whom they call by name for every dawn. Mud hut and the gnarled limbs like bones shed from the guardian forest. Densely combined to keep hearts safe in their place of their very own. A home. Their home. Our home. The whole world over this is true in some sense instinctual to near all. Music… another instinct I would like to think endowed in all. Taste though another thing entirely. Audible joy of the purest kind floats up from hinter lands carried on soft breeze and twirling blossoms. Loveliness mixed among the unloveliness of time passing overhead. Every gruntable dialect seems to spill forth in a newly ubiquitous variety. Up and over the Babel tower walls and gates. Resounding again in echoes far flung. They are connected across the bodies belonged to the Earth. Like one can only imagine the ill-abandoned Wardenclyffe towers should have been. Buck them all for trying anyways I smear. This is honesty though. Simple even honesty we have here. Anthropological field recordings caught at play in the roughly paved streets of some distant far-off foreign town. Effervescent dancers hula upon shifting waves swelling then retracting in hypnotic daze long and steady. Displayed above boiling surfaces, an incubator for our loves. The beating rays falling long and deep, dried sharp in hard summer ‘s heat.
So I am reminded by Carlos Casas the documentary filmmaker. This man here. Carlos the neo explorer of post lost worlds ever fading from memory. Carlos with digital recorder and audacity does as he feels. Lucky duck in pond scum. Seems like a nice enough fellow from the small fraction I have worked out. Carlos here has his own cultural craven planted somewhere near his heart. A hunger that sprouts to forage naturally the lands and soundscapes placed upon our consciousness. Which is really our soul no doubt. The great Pamir region in Central Asia is our destination through our friend. As wild beasts captured are set free to run amok across the mind in wonder. So may the dead ring in ear while us, the cultural ghouls, hover in feast over this newly wrought, uncovered obscurity from another world half way from our own. Thank you kindly Carlos. I’ll be busy stuffing my head holes with these forlorn glimmerings. He may not be directly descended from the Lomax clan blood line, but Casas is definitely gathered in garde upon grasses aligned with the sky. As he walks in peace with the families and friends of the same tribe. He has done a great thing if only for being there in exactness to time. Conquering moments now committed and unlost. Panning gold intangibles out from under the gushing currents which continuously dilute and erode away sentiments. The same as though sediment, loose and ready to follow its elemental destiny. Over invisible cue points heard hiding in wide open spaces in plain time’ sight. So never to the point as that is trite and boorish bias. We reluctantly digress.
Now you may be thinking to yourself and possibly saying, “But when for the love of an indigenous god gone away are you going to get to the actual review part?” Which I have stored up snark keenly to quip your winged prayer by. As I just did, lovers. So is it good? Is it art? I believe so. Why must you know? Just go and take flight yourself. I will wait on the front porch for you. If not I’ll be busy with zoom in room capturing exotic places from yellow cat wires strung for miles. Of places which I shall never grace in person. As not all records are the good kind my friends. Carlos Casas and his newly built skull pyramid here is the exception though perhaps. Which I give rate to with, two dead Russian mystics and a Turkestan princess! A final tally and a horrendous system in effect. Still that’s a pretty decent score. All things barely considered.