» Larissa - Stage Club
The clearness of a spring day in February ended to a sly rain as The Trees were almost completing their soundcheck. A few lucky who watched it heard an unbelievable version of "Under the stars", but it is rather impossible to perform the beauty of "Under the stars" in a mediocre way. As it was expected (LF)TRABM raced the basic part of their performance, starting with the epic "Domed", strong and serious enough to give the exact impression to some people who were driven to the "Stage" Club just by curiosity. The delicate esoteric, gentle satisfaction of "The beautiful silence" raised a nostalgic warmth and spread the right carpet for the dim optimism of "Under the stars". Old weird times grew furiously as "Gone...like the swallows" led Simon's voice to the familiar ending crescendo. The attractive chorus of "Dialogue" seemed to last just for one breath as "Vincent Crane" along with "He walked through the dew" drove the five silhouettes in suspiciously distant movements. "Mary of the woods" echoed definite with its eerie final promise and the ghost of "...Lucy" troubled the spirits as it always should...
Turning back to the Virus period once more, "Maps in her wrists and arms" poisoned the smoky air: the older fellows started whistling and screaming to old loves never forgotten.The conception of "The untangled man", consistent and forever hunting, brought the obsessive footprints for Simon's painful dance, slowly growing into an impressive highlight. A trilogy of "The rag and bone man" was meant to complete the basic part of the setlist. Coat over his head-suspicious eyes-sly drumming steps-the storyteller unhappily is the protagonist in "The legend of Mucklow" and the tension seems to sink his strength till "The man with the drum" offers a sweet relief. "Rive Droite" walks up a hill of visions and impressions, the faces look exhausted and Paul's drumming seals the edge of the night.
They disappear for a while and come back on stage with the heat of "Scarlet arch" counting an ancient time of a personal fever. When the first moments of "Virus meadow" slipped between the heads around the room, it was certain that something huge and important was floating around: some people just called it precious past. And it was not enough for anyone as the five silouettes stepped out of the stage: the last card on the table of a starless night was the everlasting flaming circle of "The slow pulse boy" always chasing the redemption... from horizon to horizon.
Staring at the empty stage while faithful figures grab the setlist pages, you take a piece in your heart shaking with echoes and visions, memories and impressions lasting with persistence against the pale, predictable daily reality. While you keep returning back to it, a sanctuary for a world gently valuable, you can't stop thinking about music business being so unfair to them...