Eclectic? Too over used. Multifarious? Only for the english-majored. It is the rich, wildly passionate music of the downheartedly hopeful, and the confluence of the romanticists' artistry flowing from all the veins of the bohemian-hearted spirit of truth and love. Melodies dreamed but forgotten upon waking, words of the heart unable to be sung. It is the sweeping cinematic of faith gone a rye and found again. Faith in self, others, and things greater. It is the muse of the human condition, the desire to lose desire, and the zeal for zeal. It is the struggle of arrogance, and the battle of pride, of pretension. The gainings and failures. The crest at the moment before the crash. Emotion without regard. The orchestra's first chair strings and percussionists playing with the drunken pianist and guitarist at the foot of the Eiffel for the popular culture's table crumbs. Flirting with their looks, and gladly accepting their divided attention. The choler of their heath robinson of a symphony. It is the frustrated attempt to voice the soul. Has it failed? Has it drowned? Only the show can tell. And the show must go on. To make smaller the big big world.
The release of the premier etage album was as if Melpomene, Erato, and Euterpe, were all in intercourse to produce the sierra of the maestro's pullings on the baton. The vex of the try, and the negligence of outcome. The show was to the all-encompassed culture of the mountains, the orchestra pieced 10 on an uncannily warm All Saints Day in 2005 asked the question, and the accord is still responding. Since then, the LP's popularity has been on the mount, and the swarey of starry-eyed players has dwindled to the accordion's lush chordal harmonies, the lone fretless string player, the ivory keys, and strumming of the acoustic. The timpanist has since traded his kettles for a snare, a bass drum and cymbals. Their hearts sink and rise, and they travel far and wide on their wayward cart in search of their original cause.
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