The great miraculous bell of translucent ice is suspended in mid-air. It rings to announce endings and beginnings. And it rings because there is fresh promise and wonder in the skies. Its clear tones resound in the placid silence of the autumn day, and echo long into the silver-blue serenity of night. The bell can only be seen at the fall of the year, when the days wind down into nothing, and get ready to march out again. When you hear the bell, you feel a tug at your heart ... hold still. Stay there and tease back the layers. You are in the space between your comfort zone and infinity. You want to hide ... not be seen, not be open, not be vulnerable, but you have to. There are two ways to do this - soft and gentle or fast and hard. Both will get you to the other side, if you let them.
I was still a young boy when I heard the music that ended the first phase of my life and cast me hurtling into a new horizon. Drenched to the skin, I stood at that train station peering upwards through diagonal rain, looking for the train that would take me home. It was there that I finally heard it: like sonic scalpels, the sounds of something that felt familiar, yet I couldn't quite recognize. My body hairs pricked up, each one a willing receiver, and to my young ears, the sound of these amplified guitars was angelic - although, in hindsight, I don’t suppose angels would take the time to play me sweet nothings. I heard a voice that suggested vocal chords of polished silver soared alongside razor-sharp overdriven riffs. I knew that I was hearing my future.
