Slog - The Stranger's Blog

Line Out

The Music Blog

« In Case You Missed It | Gregoire: Another Behind the S... »

Friday, July 21, 2006

Nora’s Notes

Posted by on July 21 at 14:57 PM

Here are the reasons for posting the liner notes of Herbie Hancock’s Empyrean Isles: because very few works of American music can match the greatness of Empyrean Isles; because Hancock’s solo on “Oliloqui Valley” happens to be one of those sacred moments in jazz history; because the recording of the music was done by an opthamologist; because the four original pieces of music absolutely unify the sensibilities of pop, tradition, and the avant-garde; and, finally, because the liner notes, written by Nora Kelly, are, like Kate Bush, beautifully batty.

EMPYREAN ISLES Away beyond the mountains of Lune, in the heart of the Great Eastern Sea, lie the Empyrean Isles, four glittering jewels, beyond the dreams of men. There is a perpetual haze around them, shimmering and distorting, and they seem to hover, ethereal, a little above the water, suggesting a world inaccessible except to fancy. Myth and legend clothe these Isles in mystery, for they are elusive and said to vanish at the approach of ordinary mortals. Yet sailors have seen them glinting from afar, a green and gold illusion. Warm winds caress them, wrapping sinuous tendrils of mist around their lofty crowns and wafting a delicious scent across the waters, fresh, yet heavy, strong and intoxicating. Thus it is said that incense-bearing trees blossom there, filling the air with the frail, intimate perfume of flowers unseen in the dark. No man has ever been known to set foot upon their shores, but ships have passed close enough to glimpse, though the enfolding mists, the slender stems of bright trees swaying in the breeze, and near on of the Isles, to catch the lush, overpowering odor of ripe cantaloupes.
Men say this island is covered with leafy green vines, and cantaloupes are everywhere. Nothing else grows, there, and flourishing thus unchecked, the vines and melons attain enormous size. It is said that a mere mouthful of one of these cantaloupes will give immortality to him who eats it. On clear, windy days, when the breezes are strong enough to dispel the vapors, it is possible to discern the smooth, shining, dome-shaped peak of The Egg, a mountain about which the strangest mists and tales are woven. Veiled, inscrutable bastion of strength, its silent presence suggests ever-present danger, dormant perhaps, but ominous in its potential. And occasionally, when some vast tremor from the bowels of the earth shakes the waves and sends towering mountains of water across the placid Eastern Sea, people say that The Egg is ripening and becoming impatient at its long confinement. There are many tales and prophecies concerning the hatching of The Egg. No one really knows what may emerge. There are those who scorn the magic of the Isles, saying that if The Egg ever breaks open, molten lava will gush forth, as is the case with the mountains of our ordinary earth. But those who have seen the Empyrean Isles and have passed within the circle of their power believe other and stranger things. Some say that a vast monster will rise, perhaps a dragon, breathing smoke and flames. Others say a new island will be born. And lastly, there are those who believe that The Egg is angered by man's interfering ways, and its eruption will herald the passing of the islands from our sphere, remaining no long as a living paradise for men to gaze upon. Yet the island that has fascinated men more than any other is the Isle of Dreams, containing the mythical Oliloqui Valley. Men passing close to this isle become transfixed, all their senses bending toward it, oblivious to the world about them until the winds carry them out of the ring of power. Their minds and voices are far away, as if they walked in some dark vale, lost between dreaming and waking. When their thoughts return to the land of men, they babble in unknown tongues and tell of weird visions, of far countries and strange peoples. Always the speak of dancing, of beautiful and complex dance they can only describe as the "One Finger Snap,” which they say do in their dreams, but which they cannot duplicate afterwards. Yet it is ever with great reluctance that they turn their minds away from these glittering fantasies.
They speak of wandering through a far valley ringed about with frowning precipices and filled with the perfume of large, white flowers, pale and deadly. They are great swaths of filmy moss hanging from all the trees, creating an illusion of a veiled mystery, but when the elusive barrier is thrust aside, there is only another. In their dreams, men keep parting the veils, thinking they are reaching the heart of the mystery and wandering further and further till they are lost in a shadowy world where dream and reality lose their distinction. One ship became becalmed within the circle of this isle, and the men remained too long wandering in its secret enchantment. When the wind finally came up and drifted their ship back to the world of men, all the sailors were found dead, their eyes closed and peaceful smiles on their faces, as if they had dreamed to death. And prized above the jewels of a kingdom is a single white flower that was found drifting in the waters near the island and brought home by a sailor to his lord. For it is said that when the King is weary and sad, and would forget his troubles, he gazes upon this bloom and inhales its potent fragrance, and for a while is lost in the healing dreams of that inaccessible paradise. -Nora Kelly, Original Liner Notes

CommentsRSS icon

Another dreamy and poetic posting Charles. You've made my morning.

Comments Closed

In order to combat spam, we are no longer accepting comments on this post (or any post more than 45 days old).