CHAPTER ONE
IN SEARCH OF THE LOST SOUND
"... Before me ... Abandon all hope, ye who enter here..." (Dante, Inferno, III, 9)
In Loadstone, a small town at the foot of the ghost town of Rhyolite near Zabriskie Point in Death Valley, everyone knew it, but more than a rehearsal room, that of Ian, Jin, Mars and Cosmos seemed like an alchemic-sonic laboratory, pregnant with rock relics onorison researcher founding like the archaOf the perfect golden sound, the philosophical sound where sound is neither created nor destroyed but all sound is transformed.And everything will transform during their lives.The building was an old house built in the early twentieth century in the wake of the local mining research.It was located south of Dante’s View, which offers an extraordinary view of the entire white expanse that characterizes the southern basin of Death Valley.The extraordinary nature of this place is given by the fact that this viewpoint seems suspended between heaven and earth, so much so as to recall, emblematically, Dante’s Purgatory.Dante's View is part of the Black Mountains, in the immediate vicinity of which stands Furnace Creek., and right on the entrance door, painted in carmine red, of Loadstone Studios, stood that phrase of Dantesque workmanship.It opened the doors to that cosmo-sonic universe as a warning to their constant and patient research that over the years had given rise to their sound.On the way to a journey through a single muse to inspire them: music and sound.Opening that passage and crossing that carmine door, you had the sensation of being in a new universe.And it was truly out of the ordinary and exciting at the same time.The walls and ceiling were completely painted black, paved with gold and silver dots and a thousand other Newtonian colors blending into a single light.As if they were the notes of God transcribed in the universe or perhaps in absolute nothingness.Or rather in the whole void in its immutable mutant formula, like what appeared in that asideral place.On the walls the various posters of rock groups seemed to be fused on the same with that dense and thick black paint like cosmic tar, and other stains of who knows what other alien substance, thickened by the years spent bouncing the notes, outlined like cameos an environment so magical, Multiverse and caustic.At the center of the room stood the skranio: a sort of temporal-musical think tank in the shape of a skull.From the look of it seemed like the command post of a modern space station with wires, cables and computers connected to each other like a giant octopus on which to sit and find concentration and new inspiration.A sort of asideral time machine where you could find, study, cut and sew all the guitar riffs, bass lines and drum breaks that had made the history of rock.Everything around smelled and tasted of music; of various instruments and strange contraptions; of almost pre-cambrian flavors.In many cases they were instruments that belonged to their myths, to those historical rock figures sacrificed for rock and idolized by rockers.In other cases, reproductions or ethnic instruments belonging to various cultures.In the four corners of the nerological room there were speakers with a holophonic system, so that the music could rotate, float in the room like a rhythmic dance suspended in the golden air.One of the most impressive things to see was also the immense bookcase that also served as acoustic insulation for the room itself.They were volumes and essays on the evolution of music in its various forms of expression; treatises on the golden sound or on binaural sounds; up to the recent sounds from the cosmos proposed by modern physicists and scientists. Which did nothing but confirm, even if with different names, theories and thoughts of past philosophies or religions.As well as treatises on cultures and symbols that influence our earthly life so much.In short, treatises on this energy vector called music.
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