Pink Warm Belly Of A Dying Sun by Pink Warm Belly Of A Dying Sun
A bleak but beautifully broadcast prophecy
If this artist name doesn't conjure visions of humanity's ignorant and dispassionate greed, having raped the world of every last shred of goodwill, appetite now satiated, reclining corpulently on a barren rock, then you're missing the point. Listen up! Pink Warm Belly Of A Dying Sun are here to foretell the future and it's bleak.
Across five tracks of desolate beauty and empty hope, like parables from an oracle, musician Marc Jacobs, aka Prairie (read my review of And The Bird Said: Cut Me Open And Sing Me) and wordsmith Lukasz Polowczyk, aka Ain't About Me, capture a vision of the future in apocalyptic widescreen:
Coney Island beaches littered with decomposing whale carcasses, graffitied up as if it’s 1982 again. Thermobaric bombs wring diamonds out of twisted, charcoal-black lungs. An Ikebana presentation of black lilies in a spent tear gas canister turned into a vase, seen through the eyes of Damien Hirst’s cut- up, formalin-preserved shark.
Music for deep contemplation. It's good but it's heavy.