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OCR03402 - Chrono Trigger "Yearnings na Gaoithe"


Liontamer
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The one reminds me of the quieter part of a 70's cop movie soundtrack, I'm really fond of the style. (I don't know how to describe that style any better, see "Man with Icey Eyes" or " James Clarke ‎– Mystery Movie" to see what I mean.) The arrangement isn't really complicated, but I think it's better because of it.

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This is now my favorite track of the year. I live for these kind of remixes...more specially these kinds of envisioning of experiences that words are useless to describe, which can only be felt and not explained. Take an empty room and utilize that feeling to make a song about empty rooms, without ever describing an empty room, speaking a language that only conveys a feeling and not an explicit intention and I'll say afterwords " Gee, that track made me feel like I was standing in an empty room" and there you have it. Why do I love this track? 3 letters P,B,S. I love the grainy sounds of the plucks in the beginning and the flutes, makes me feel like Im sitting in 6th grade science class and the projector fires up a documentary about the "Frogs of the Everglades" circa 1973 PBS with all slight detunings that accompany a taped sound track or the graininess of the sound quality. Everything makes me feel like Im watching PBS from the late 70's or 80's. I have been very busy at trying to emulate that feeling and style and now here is this glorious flagship for a new musical genre....PBS-core.

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A friend of mine has a knack for imaginatively describing the vibe of songs, so I played this remix for him and showed him this picture:

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And this is what he wrote...

Quote

That image is a needlepoint in the dining room of an elderly Italian woman whose house has remained in the same fashion with the same furniture since her husband's death in 1978. She is older and her tastes have changed - she has a Honda now - and her family has grown. They are visiting her now, but they do not think she has changed. Her tomato sauce is the same as when her boys were little. The smell of bread and of three sons and their wives and children fill the room with blue-collar mediocrity. No one is talking to her, but she is not alone. She sits at the side of the table. She doesn't get up quickly anymore, so sitting at the foot of the table by the kitchen is long past her. She lost the only thing she would wish to have back. Her elementary aged grandson sits in her husband's former spot at the head of the table. His school's Thanksgiving play is soon. But she will be dead before it happens. Her friend from Church will speak at the wake before her family. It is breezy and she can smell the trees.

 

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