The same caveat applies here as in the previous critique: no caveats are needed.
So, this album is utterly crisp – Epicurean. Perhaps it is some kind of an instinct of serendipity that makes it able for Moon Fog Prophet to hit the nail every time they pick the hammer up? As it were a fortuitous way of finding what one is searching for – a second sight of the first rank? Who knows?
To hell with these meaningless metaphysical questions! The solemn Starling surely knows where she moves, and as to the wicked Miss Curwin’s toys, every single soul is completely aware that a pathetic scoundrel called Jimmie Kane stole them and sold his rotten loot to abject sadomasochists of the North Pole.
The stupid story above is of course complete nonsense concocted by the distinguished critic as artist, but the music and lyrics of the album are not. The calm grandeur of the icy, supernatural Starling leaves nothing unexplained. It is measure and harmony that are at work here. Even in Miss Curwin’s surreal toys. And oh how these toy soldiers do their share!
The composure of this work is something that defies expression. It is so rewarding to plunge into the bracing water of this album time and again. The sense of proportion is right there on the spot. This piece of work is very Hellenic, extremely classical. There is sap of course, and even quite a bit of thunder and lightning. Moreover, there are some plaintive chords that belong to any noble character. But all these elements throbbed also under Athenian skin, tan and ticklish, tight and trim. Those were the days! And if you want to send a telegram to your Star Neighbour in the lovely garden of Epicurus, remember that the right address is not far from your sapient heart. (Steinspinne)