A composite sketch of Brooklyn's Dragons of Zynth would be a scribble. It would be atomic and never stagnant, all over the place. The fivesome is cold rushing water and then rapids - deadly, deadly white rapids that gnarl canoes and rafts by way of rocks, acting like panther teeth. This composite would be made of lines and pen strokes meant for both slasher movies and climaxes. They are romantic this way, giving us both sides of the slippery, sweaty coin.
Only the strong survive their music, which has ferocity, depth of character, a glowing patina, more beauty than a nursery and unbridled hellishness. It can hit you in the face with thunder and bolt you alert with a new idea that somehow makes you suddenly - and for the first time in months (years?) feel life, really feel life working and breathing next to you and through you. Sit in a room while they're making music and you are shuttled into the outer space of outer space, looking around as if sight and audibility had just been granted you for the first time. You're witness to the group's uncanny ability to move you, to sway your body to side with them without talking it over first. It is an automatic reaction and unquestioned. They are friends with the TV on the Radio crew and all that you need to take that for is that it's an indication of the shared abhorrence of all sterility, of all that is cashed and phoned in.
The group's ability to check all of its routine, all of its patterns and clichés at the door results in music that gives you the same feeling that a freefall does. You're trying you catch your breath, but the view's scary and immaculate. It's so stirring that you realize catching your breath means it'll end and you'd rather that not happen. So you go on trying, taking big gulps and feeling the drop absolutely burn your face. It's a new experience that redefines the word vivid and the phrase "holy shit."
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