PITY POOR MASTER Greentrials, the neglected wonderboy, alone in
the ballroom, eking out his huge symphonic theatre rock masterpieces, gloved hands and all.
Pity him, for tonight his love has slapped him across the face with her own
* * * *
“Easy-going pop gems with some twisted
manipulations. Check it out.”
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glove, small, white, and delicately frilled. The challenge she made him was
this: if your love is true, Love, then write me a song that will call back
across the years, to black Nefertiti and her King in Thebes, to Eurydice and
her Orpheus, to lovers’ songs of all ages past, and make my own love the envy
of the ages to come.
“A delicious suite of hummable ghost tales.”
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Perhaps Master Greentrials had overstepped the bounds of decency and truth
when, in his drunken boasting, he mocked the revered figures of old, scornfully
likening them to performing animals—monkeys plinking haphazardly at their
too-expensive claviers. Perhaps he’d gone too far when he spat at the ground,
rubbing with the heel of his boot that appraisal of the great Orpheus. Now
sober, he wishes he’d not said such things.
“But Love... to write such a thing as this.” He stammers now. “It is not
the work of great men, but of the—”
“Of whom, Love? Of monkeys plinking at claviers? I’ve heard what you say
about great men, and I believe it. Isn’t that what you wanted? My Faith?
Now write me a song.”
The others have all gone out, now, to some grand engagement no doubt, but
Inclasificable y genial, Greentrials dio a luz uno de
los
discos más inspirados (e inadvertidos) del 2002.
Aún estás a tiempo de descubrirlo.
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Master Greentrials sits alone with his dilemma, knowing the bargain he
must cut, but dreading it still. He has it in him, he knows, to do the
thing she’s asked, and it’s that certainty that makes the task all the
more terrible.
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