1. |
Part I: The Father
15:04
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Creening, croaking, teeming, swarming swamp.
A solitary figure in the fog, genuflecting at the frogs, divine rulers of the bog, overlords the gods forgot. He bows his head and rises; the amphibians have spoken. Cloaked and masked, he proffers forth untold secrets of rebirth. I sit alone, the darkness comforting, abandoned by the world, and he sees me. “Follow me,” he whispers, “I will show you truth.” He bows his head and rises. Without heed I follow.
Worship Gralaghorr! [a diadem of sludge and slime]
Live forevermore! [the gospel of the frogs divine]
Gliding through the underbrush, he holds aloft his glowing staff, while I struggle through the brambles in the dark without a path. Finally I start to see the ghostly glow of the misty moor, my nostrils accosted by the wretched stench of the mighty Gralaghorr. My guide leans close and speaks anew, “Give your pain to the rotten slough.” Upon my brow he smears an arc of mud, then plunges me beneath the murky surface.
A filthy baptism!
I gasp and cough. Is this the cost?
Mouthful of muck, lungs filling up...
“Join the sons of Gralaghorr” he cackles while I drown. My spirit rises, I am reborn as he holds my body down.
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2. |
Part II: The Son
11:21
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I am His son, son of the magnificent Gralaghorr.
I am reborn!
From the sacred swamp I emerge, cleansed by filth, dripping with divine putrescence. I will worship Gralaghorr! I will live forevermore! I will spread His gospel, His amphibious lore. All shall worship His name. Their new god shall be the mighty Gralaghorr!
I retreat into my hooded robes. I stalk the night, to save the ones devoid of hope. There! I see him, sitting alone in the shadows. He needs me now. “Follow me,” I whisper, “I will show you truth.”
I bow my head and stand. Wordlessly he follows. The way lighted by my staff, the way to the sacred swamp. Trees start to part, as the fog grows thick. A holy glow and the smell of sick. I bask in the holy odor, I let it warm my blood. I touch the holy water, I raise up holy mud. I smear an arc upon his brow. “Give your pain to the rotten slough!” I plunge his head below, strengthening my grip. I dream of my reward, he gurgles and he spits. “Join the sons of Gralaghorr,” I call into the wind. His body stills beneath my hand. Let the rebirth begin!
We are his sons, sons of the magnificent Gralaghorr. We are reborn! We will worship Gralaghorr!
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Not Music Quebec City, Québec
Progressive, creative, experimental, and avant-garde music, regardless of genre.
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