Cibelle :: Cibelle
The warm breeze covers me like an old friend. Well past twilight, treading slowly through angular roads, intersections without sense, emotion without senses, a geographical riddle with the intensity of a city yet geometry of uncertain construct. I exhale, the breeze returns, this confusion quiets. A night of silence, restive speculation, the quizzical streets of Jersey City beneath my feet and infinity above my head. I stomp the concrete like a soft soldier sailing the dark sky.
An abstraction breaks silence first. Technology, an irate noise yet melodic, a coin drops, I search the pavement though it's all in my head. Earphones tucked, I lose myself in sudden noise. The bells chime, followed quite immediately by bass; the fuzziness warm, familiar. Soon the ground beneath is swept away, I too lost in the sonic nightscape.
Cibelle. Of Brazil, but that voice, that voice, no locale exists. Her harmonies I fall into, slide a long spiral into her brilliant subterfuge. The sound is familiar, we revisit that point, but as the winds from the Hudson sweep up Columbus Ave. I no longer make distinction between them and music. They've mingled rhythmically and I cannot trust my legs, they on command of night. Lost I become, twice.
Ex-Suba vocalist (brilliance perished but living on), Cibelle now solo. Within her solitude (that voice) we're comforted. Two languages - that of her homeland and this of fragments - I break into as many pieces, some albums just hit you that way, certain music creeps into darkest crevices and bring light, a dedicated library could never capture a melody hitting you that way. This night, a breeze, and the tender romance of bossa folklore, jazz swept across an electronic landscape, computers and instruments conspire. Let it end here: machines, our creation, drums, our creation, this language, again ours. There is no distinction, we're speaking of toys and passions, let's move forward and debate no further. It leaves less time for dancing.
I am at the end of my twisted voyage. The triangles of Jersey City a memory, I arrive home. The sonic escapade continues from IPod to stereo, I lying against pillows and drifting. The music carrying me along streets now lulls me to rest. Sleep echoes my name, the harmonies not resisting no matter how many excuses my mind conjures. I attempt to merge as the wind but fail; this flesh snug against its mysterious raptures, I try no further and submit. Again silence, again such beautiful, tragic noise.