The juniper buds and Prussian blue night are a convex moon changing phases like capricious cats lazily dwelling in the dormitory of the pale universe. Kristian Phillip Valentino has a voice that at once has an inkling of Bon Iver, then later at intervals Jeff Buckley.
We see the pitch that is the depth of Kristian Phillip Valentino’s vocal range and unique vision that is an isolated parapet at a rooftop party with lingering ghosts: easing, looming and gazing over the mast as though fear were second nature. That indie-folky breath which we could see with our eyes closed are an anthem of the shaky modesty that enraptures “It’s Fallen” and Kristian Phillip Valentino has a deep prose and profound echo, deftly reaching the world’s pulpy marrow.
Those sorrowful pinions of song gravely reverberate throughout the rooms as though tidal waves of bones and skinny love, what could be said of the breath of longing leaving the homes to visit the spaces we adore in secret, the spirit of madness is the perspiring synapses lodging themselves together like gentle brides and grooms, and we are taken by the walk through the autumn where Kristian Phillip Valentino moves as though possessed by a languorous, sultry mood as though we were casting slow penetrating stares at the feet of our regrets.
It’s as though a cloud of mounting haze comes to oppress the stony sun and we’ve been so reclusive and aware of the days running into other days that it becomes a nexus, the meditation of somberness. Kristian Phillip Valentino croons as though wounded, that existential quality of longing is the crux of “It’s Fallen” like so much dominion in the earthen realm of suffering and unsatisfactoriness.
From the first plucking of strings and wallop of song- Kristian Phillip Valentino holds us like Djinns in a jar of sand and oceans, invisible lands that grant unfathomable desires. And by the time the solemn rumination becomes a storm of languish we are the passengers peering through our windows out into the moving frames of the world and amber lights. This tinge of rough, raw kernels are an airy space of the dour touch of sure hands which is a land of sparse time and living rooms.
Written by Hari Palacio
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