Search - Escarlatina Obsessiva :: Blossomy Parks

The Brazilian export Escarlatina Obsessiva's US debut Blossomy Parks is a nod to all things from the eighties that were great. New Wave & goth-rock have never sounded as fresh and as retro as they do on the tracks such as the saucy Show Me Your Flesh and the keyboard driven Will Still Fail. The combination of keyboards, haunting vocal affects, and a knack for writing a great hook combine together to form an unforgettable album in Blossomy Parks. From the band: At this time, it were only memories of dreams we had, when asleep in the woods. The noises were internal, the sounds came from within the dream and, inversely, filled the spaces and echoed amongst the trees, if the trees and even the whole forest were there at all. Yes, because after that, with our nails, during the years, we digged the hillsides and found buried asphalt, or stone, or ancient pavement. We wondered if it was really the ground under our feet. Over it all, silent, rested the blossomy parks, the hindmost melodies, the lovelorn halls. The carroussel, over it all, spinned alone, and the objects themselves desired to stir, whilst the bells' melody clang out, the one from distant bells, as shadows imprisioned in walls, eternally expelled of any banquet, those lonely, since always jailed into the campaniles... Because there is no love without pain and because "wound the hours, but the last one will always annihilate"...and maybe because to stop is as vain as to keep still, and to doubt, and to believe...and also maybe because everything persists when we don't last anymore...and for some other few reasons. Or so we will believe it's all confused shadows, indistinct shapes of what we loosely glimpse afar, and like everything that surround us, give us the boast of asking: - "After all, is it really there? Exists? Or is it pure ideal?" Will compress the eyelids, will strengthen the retina, there's something solid, that doesn't move, and seems sometimes to be, and sometimes not to be there, at the mercy of the clouds. Come rumours, banquets' tinkles, voices, threat screams, death. Sometimes, the wind brings, in intermittent flurries, melodic fragments. Delicate flurries bring'em carrefully, as if not to break the sounds. Would it be music? So, let us listen to it, record it in our memories, before we wake up!