Blasé: Effusion
Rayani’s fingertips lead their trademarked delayed echoes, while Hrasky juxtapositions with a rhythmic backbone. Crescendos grace the cemetery lawn like chiffon waves and one by one the palm trees shudder in response, and in awe. Seconds build up like an opening scene and here you are, right here.
You. Are. The. Protagonist.
Every exhale gushes a rivulet of emotion, every gesture laden with significance. Should “strength in absence” make sense to anyone, it’s epitomised through this. In the continuum of glittering blackness where lyrics usually dwell, you are at liberty to project any meaning, any character or any plot onto the lacking.
You are not told what to feel and you don’t say what you feel. You just feel.
You are not told what to do and you don’t say what you’ll do. You just do.It is now your turn to take the ethereal melodies by her fingers, by her hands, by her elbows, by her arms and by her waist. You are leading the dance and all you needed was a minute before transcending into cosmic liftoff. Thrown into the unknown yet you are soaring and still you are accompanied by each cinematic maneuver of this speechless finesse.
And now you marvel at how a lack of words elicits so much more than a plethora of them do. Perhaps the best lyricists are the silent and the best listeners are the silenced. Careful. We might wake the dead, with
Explosions in the Sky.
