This is space opera at its finest. (As in the subgenre of science fiction literature where tales of romance and dare doing heroes fight power hungry villains and alien monsters, all set against the backdrop of the stars.) There are no ear splitting sopranos singing in German on this record, but sultry vocals cooed into a microphone over gorgeous synth lines and hypnotic guitar riffs. This was the perfect band to sit down and listen to as I waited for my flight to arrive inside a dimly lit spaceport bar.
Like a lavish valentine, with a star map of the constellation Cassiopeia on the front (personally signifying the influence of destiny on lovers crossing paths), and beribboned on the back with a heart sealed in hot silver wax, the package itself received the same caring attention and treatment as did the music inside. As with the soundtrack work of Current 93, Celestina was also conceived as music to accompany a short story. The subject matter in this case isn’t the claustrophobic worlds of a Thomas Ligotti or decadent Count Stenbock, but a tale of love, lust and betrayal scripted by 17 Pygmies lead man Jackson Del Rey himself. Like Jackson’s namesake (editor and author Lester del Rey), his story would find a fitting home amongst a pile of yellowing and well thumbed paperbacks from sci-fi’s Golden Age.
Initially inspired by the 15th century Latin novel La Celestina, the next link in Jackson’s associative chain of inspiration came to him upon reading the headline “Nasa astronaut Lisa Nowak charged with attempted murder in bizarre love triangle.” What emanated from his pen is an enjoyable story playing on the tropes of the genre, just as the music enclosed gives a psychedelic tribute to the 1950s-60s science-fiction motion pictures soundtracks it evokes. Downloadable as PDF from a web address disclosed in the liner notes, my only complaint about this release is that the story was not included with the rest of the beautiful package.
The score is an exceptional one and not only stands on its own feet, but in its own corner, apart from the crowd. The band does so to their own advantage, never rescinding on the vision that is integral to their surf infused psychedelic sound. The lasting power of this music will outlive the bands who spawn stale fads.
The first track of eleven on Celestina is reminiscent of a movie’s opening credits; with delicate guitar work and dreamy synth lines, it prepares me for the coming voyage to the Grand Nebula. Meg Maryatt, the lead female on vocals, (a slight change of lineup since their last 13 Blackbirds/13 Lotus release) makes her appearance on the second song. Her scintillating question, “Could this be heaven?” forms a smoky refrain we hear reprised later in the album.
Track five is an epic freakout describing the disastrous collisions that sometimes occur in the shadowy depths of deep space -an asteroid or errant satellite slams into the body of the Celestina like the throbbing drum hits punctuating the ears. Breathy vocals saunter in, a soft rattle hovers around a tightly woven ominous bass thrum, and a screechy high-end guitar is manically picked, like someone laughing from inside a padded cell. Meg sings out “Somethings wrong,” like a warning, like a siren.
The keyboardist sends out shooting stars that wisp and whiz by, diffusing the harried moments in a warm synthesized aura. The afterimages fade with plucked harpsichord guitar trills. Squiggles of computer hiss emerge, as if the machines on board are breaking down.
Perfectly spaced tings on a bell issuing from the right speaker begin track ten; a telegraph pulse responds from the left. This is the kind of music I could drift into a black hole listening to. No longer tethered to the spacecraft, catapulted out by a jealous lover, I am gradually pulled in by a majestic chord. My supply of oxygen is running out and when the synth comes to its abrupt halt, I know I’ve taken my last breath.
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