Review Summary: The last one, I swear.
I've spoke to her ghost almost every day since she vanished. Dim, flickering city lights guiding my steps through the cold mist as my eyes succumb to the weight of the night. So many things I wanted to tell her, yet they don't matter anymore. Her passing left a dark, pulsating void of anger and deception. I notice it as soon as I enter the room and the needle goes down on
Patchouli Blue. The sax breathes and whispers, it almost sounds like her voice, desecrating mementos better left untouched at the bottom of a glass. Her perfume lingers in the air, like vibraphone notes tipping over the smoke rings. Her spectral touch feels like those brushes on the rugged snare. Dark jazz, they call this, certainly the bastard unwanted son of distant musical practices like doom and jazz, creeping up the walls now like a long, miserable shadow behind me.
The room is getting smaller every minute, suffocating whatever was left of my good will to end the eve in peace. So I grab my coat, one-shot the sad remains of a lukewarm whisky and head out again in the arms of sorrow. It's past midnight, but I know Kasumi's den will still be welcoming my woes and curses. I don't belong to this world anymore. My head is filled with music that screams Angelo Badalamenti. The remains of a weeping sax melody that crawls with me through the streets, at times answered by some dripping piano, other times embraced by a long menacing organ, and perennially carried by the solemn plucking of a contrabass and the faint strokes of cymbals and drumheads at writhing speed. Even if the titles are extraneous to me, I remember them somehow, written on the back of the record with big, white letters. "Vergessen & Vorbei" had a nice synth going on, if I remember correctly. "Glaub mir kein Wort" was especially gloomy, while "Sollen es doch Alle wissen" felt more like a Blue Note ballad played by the resident trio. “All in all,
Patchouli Blue it’s a nice record, huh?” I tell her ghost, “kinda fits the goddamn mood.”
A few more steps and I'll be leaning on the bar, focused on my unhinged quest of becoming the phantom of all things gone wrong in life. I know Ipecac has a soft spot for wretches like myself but also for spectral jazz like the one Bohren & Der Club of Gore have been refining since like... forever, so no surprise they released their three last records... cheers to that! Fortunately, not many customers left at this time in Kasumi's. There's an old lady whose make-up seem to have taken a revenge on her, a somber little man who didn't have time to hang his coat and went straight to business, his bottle ready to be replaced. I indulge myself in brew at the usual pace until my words are not what I want them to be. I open my wallet to Kasumi, I know I can trust her fair judgement and stagger towards the door. I'm going home. Not before long, the sullen notes of "Sag Mir, Wie Lang" return to my mind as rain pours down. I lean on a wall for a second, not eager to give in. But I break down, cuddle up and burst, crying like a five-year old lost in the dead of night. If I could only make the world understand, how much I miss her... I wipe away the mush of tears and mucus mess that stream down my face and power through my pitiful state. At home, I hug the toilet like my life depends on it, spewing out the last meal of my ancestors til’ I’m moderately satisfied. Once I reach my bed, I stretch my arm and the needle goes down again. One last
Patchouli Blue for me, for the road.
