Composer Francisco Merino Morales has enchanted me with his avant-garde opus, La Cuadratura del Circulo. To rephrase, he's allowed me to hear (to feel) inside his dark, consuming, audio tunnel.
Around that tunnel, a vivid square (a fortified tomb) constructed itself, which began with the regressing "Retruecano." For this introductory track, Merino's orchestration proved hypnotic, not unlike a vampire's eyes, which gleamed and burned into my soul, so that I witnessed a silent movie jammed with the undead, searching and cranking about in their dutiful thirst. I only needed to offer my neck to sustain them.
For the immediate follow-up, "Elegia Insondable," Merino's notes grew poignant, like a gravestone epitaph, in most ways soothing, but still part of the parasitic trap. Should I stay or go? Merino's somber draw made me choose the former, so that I embraced every seductive lure.
"Rapto Numero 1" then segued, inflating my fine, sublime state with a sweetness that was beyond sweet, bursting of harsh, hymnal wisps. However, right around the cavernous bend, there came "Rapto'"s raspy reply, "Dialogo Interior," where I learned what I was becoming, but did I really wish to join the ravenous deceased?
"Bambu" insisted that I do so. With this entry, Merino's brilliant composition worked like a prelude to John Russo's Voodoo Dawn, in a place that trickled like fetid water, inside a blood-strained shed ... a world beyond the trap, but still a trap (albeit wonderful and ever expanding) in its intrinsic, nocturnal design.
None of it was tangible, though, or so I told myself, as "Artificio" guided me onward, my transformation spreading like big, veiny wings, my toes turning into hooves ... my soul scarred and possessed, leading me into "Descorden," where the sounds exasperated my vapid worries, sliding me down muddy slopes and into prickly protrusions.
"Luce Smarrita" only pressed my arduous fate further, consuming every flicker of fleeting light. Its fabric was baroque and even more complex than Merino's prior sounds: the best of both worlds, as it were, buffering bliss against shady sorrow.
Last but not least, I faced "Insomnio," a Caligari-whispered awakening that relayed a startling truth. My dark cell was squeezed from no one's mind but my own. Its creatures were made from my own cerebral devices, conjured from the comatose fixation that Merino had induced. I now rested within my favored asylum, for better to be there than to roam the mundane. In other words, I now realize it's better to be held within Merino's sublime square than housed outside it.
Listen to La Cuadratura del Circulo to forge your own stockade. Merino's masterpiece can (and will) paint a unique, audio landscape, dependent upon where his saturating chords let you latch.
https://open.spotify.com/album/43ZxHSKv4U0t6Eq3LNGoxO?si=O5_CcoLBQv-hNHth4uc7Zw%E2%81%A9&fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTAAAR3kClZeIV5mechLpeoXBx2uaeI-Iq4TP6N4OYffmEE8WXzNHwok2CDTwFA_aem_AskWHrlHJ8qIVHOSucTenw&nd=1&dlsi=6b4a54c5b0bb4bd4
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