Have to return to Mr Kirk. There's a glut of mid/late 80's listening to slap on the virtual platter and i've just spent the last 90mins trying to distil 5 monster RHK lp's down to a few tracks. Fuckin mare, plus they'll sound more even if this shifts chronologically.
A few that arose via the depths thread and a few that didn't. First up was caught by chance. My folks were out somewhere like the pub and Herzog's Nosferatu pinged on the tv. It's an uneven film and i was lost in Isabelle Adjani's crystal blue eyes and black hair, might have even been weighing up a wank (bless me father for i have sinned). Cut to the scene where Bruno Ganz is walking along water. Everything riffs on the sketchy. Is he being followed? Popol Vuh's soundtrack is heavy in itself, such ominous tension, a band explored much more deeply a few years later. Then, as Ganz journeys upward, he stops within/overlooking mountains. The mood shifts to awe. The camera captures the image from behind Ganz's back. He's sitting, a rest-stop. Intercut with more vertiginous shots, of cloudy wisps embracing craggy peaks. The audio shifts in tone (a prime example of mixing moods) to the prelude (or Vorspeil?) to Das Rheingold.
This was as psychedelic as music could be, which included hearing 'Will You Come to the Bower' chanted live. An altered state there are no words for. The lulling, building brass, creates and opens a panorama in your being. Soaring. Gentle intercuts of images of lost, unknown ruins and Herzog has the balls and patience to let the harmonies sustain as you float too among the mountains. If i hadn't heard this piece accompanying a chance channel hop landing, would it ever have revealed the nature of itself as such? Are the fates ever that kind? Who the fuck knows. All i know is that, tucked away in these few minutes, the magic of a hidden truth unveiled itself without even being asked
edit the fuller piece that cuts before screeching singing
A Dad jazz behemoth. Not a Sunday dinner and whiskey jazz tune though. Dark, wintery evening so even the interior walls of the house were cold. If he'd played this before, i hadn't heard it. I knew his usual gear. Brown Rice came on first. The hallway led into the front room and i must've been goofing round, idling. First track of the lp sounded like a train of sorts. Heart-beat tempo, "oooh-oooh-ooooooohs", "browwwn riiiiiice", brass wailing. My attention waned because i can't recall too much, but it's the last song that reared up like a spirit animal and grabbed me by the ears like few other creations have. "Dad, what's THIS?"
Soul flight. Pure and simple. Not to sound pretentious but it really doesn't get much better than this song. The opening bass chords, hypnotic quality of its rolling poly-rhythms, deft key craft and the witch doctor vocals chanting (again) before the brass achieves full lift off. By the time Cherry's first incantation of "from Mali in Affffrica" hits, i was all in. The old man let the music finish and after i promised i'd look after it, he gave me the record to keep for myself.
Mind blown.