Melodious enchantment under duress, threaded by heartfelt emotions is how Michael Ferentino's music plays. Evidence of such can be heard in his compositions for Love in Reverse and Bedtime for Robots. His talent now takes center stage in a highly anticipated, solo album, From Here to Absurdity.
As with any Ferentino creation, From Here to Absurdity is varied and sublime, stable and erratic as its main, same-named track (for one) perpetuates. It tells of how things start with simple alignment, but over time become more complex, if not dangerous, no matter the circumstances or the theme. And Ferentino's tune (along with the entire album attached) presents plenty of both, wobbly and whirring, with a Rob Zombie-esque condemnation that sticks to the bones as it uplifts the soul in a desperate claim for survival.
"Hero", for example, is one such out-of-the-ballpark proclamation, its sound commencing down a Bondian, cowpoke trail with a Svengali twang guaranteed to seduce any fair Trilby, but in truth it's a feminist salute; and its profound words take cutting jabs at saintly patriarchal icons and their antiquated dictums (the sort of father-knows-best views that have too often slammed us into life's myopic slammer.)
"Three Days Without Water" also holds a surface, western verve, but it's psychedelic in the way of Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra's team-ups: slow and sweet as it creates a mirage under an audible sun. The track also screams for fulfillment, of being thirsty and hungry and not for food, but meaningful companionship within a vast, lonesome wasteland.
"Woke Up" is, at least to my tender ears, a reply to "Hero" and "Three Days", setting forth a revelation with the drive to set things right at the world's demise. It shrugs its politically correct insinuation by being nothing so contrived, its words catering to autonomy and choice.
On the rougher side, Ferentino gives us "Already Dead", which is as mesmerizing as the prior tracks, but goes punkish. It brings to mind a comatose state, but with a clear-cut consciousness beneath, which knows it's hurting and doomed, but doesn't care.
On another rough side, "Blunt Thing" rolls in a way that becomes a whispery warning, referencing Brave New World meets This Island Earth meets Mad Max, molded in the shape of a off-the-spool lullaby.
Its companion piece, "Lurid Wing", paints an abstract atmosphere that rifts like a satanic choir against a far worse political machine. Its rattling clangs bring to mind unkept graveyards exposed in the undetermined daylight, laced with further dystopic disarray.
"Make It Go Away" is icing for the aforementioned layers. Its taste is by no means harsh, but neither gentle. It's a string-strung plea for purgation and rebirth, the need to see the world returned to reputed innocence.
On the softer (albeit sardonic) flipside, "Flower Song", accompanied by its exquisite, ramming reprise, moves like a harpsichord waltz, playing a pleasant groove that eventually digs into something more concrete, questioning where life (i.e. all its beauty) has gone, symbolized by pulsating pounds, while it suckles annihilation.
On another softer side, "When Will I Find Love?" is a 1962 manifestation that The Fonz might savor when blowing into some chick's ear or one that Richie Cunningham might embrace after being stood up on some forlorn, Saturday night. This tune was, in fact, written by Ferentino's just-as-artistic dad, Joe, along with his partner, Frank Toscano, and the lyrics brim of immense, bittersweet yearning. Identifiable, seasoned stuff, without any debate.
On the even deeper (creeper), softer side, there's "Good Morning Sunshine": a bell-ringing commercial and/or tv-show intro on high-stock acid, but no less giddy for its inebriating stabs. There's hope in this odd one, but it's the sort that spits thickly in the eye of all sensible doubters.
"Otherture" is rather tv-ish, too, but more along the lines of old-school, non-biased PBS (if PBS was ever unbiased): a non-vocal intro to a documentary, which in this case analyzes all the waste and carnage in lieu of cheer long dead.
In death, pastoral images spread, as "There Will Be Blood" declares (this being the last track, next to the "Flowers" reprise). It speaks of a heart growing fonder when it should know better, when madness washes over all that was once clean. It's a lilting justification for why things have turned absurd and maybe, just maybe, could yet be cured through the anointment of sacrificial blood. Ah, the perfect way to end a perfect album.
From Here To Absurdity is a landmark achievement from an artist who has already attained so many successes. This one, however, prances in its own avant-garde niche, and for those who believe they've been wowed to the hilt by Ferentino's genius, be prepared; with this creation, the artist hits a whole new, astounding level.
Embark upon Ferentino's enlightened absurdity at
https://music.apple.com/us/album/from-here-to-absurdity/1658238046
and/or
https://open.spotify.com/album/3EMhWRXY0Xkg4dZEpgHcXH?si=ZhJqhP-jRay7U1_ZK3J0uQ&fbclid=IwAR1WY1y7NNgwhXxzL-cdr8jsYCDAjzWQ4CefnkAQ03wJjekbFwPSVTDJdT4&nd=1
Plus, for a "Blunt Thing" listen, visit YouTube at
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sc9gUngdfVY
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