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Lugubrious string orchestras and autumnal landscapes meet at the same intersection as sandalwood and vetiver. It's here, in golden gloaming, that Sycomore rules her sylvan subjects gently and with sober puissance.
As in Maurice Ravel's minuet from Le Tombeau de Couperin, it seems just when you've had too much richness, the sumptuous melodies filling you like thick fois gras, the composer's rigid structure and cool mind return. Polge's creamy rich sandal and stark, stoic vetiver root combine with utterly natural precision into a new accord: the imaginary smell of sycamores, whose scent only dryads can perceive.
Bassoons and oboes, in the form of aldehydes, balsams, and musk, provide pianissimo breezes, soft gauze over a sepia scene. Sycomore is the sighing dream of hazy, glowing afternoons. A distant figure reclines against a single tawny sycamore as their shadow sprawls onto a vast, arid plain.
29th June, 2011 (Last Edited: 02nd August, 2011)