I took the vibrationary enlightenment path on the Northern line in November in search of sonic benediction. Here is what I found after that fateful trip on the underground.
I wondered in the Shoreditch Vales and found a mighty sound-hall filled
With sweeping hair and riffs that curled
Around each brick and beam of light
To fill each heart with sweet delight.
And for each person in that room enlightenment did bloom
Upon their faces like a bruise,
A fractal sea of blood clots stared in wonder at the three up there, exhuming ancient eastern myth entwined around each pungent riff.
Al Cisneros’ voice rang deep,
Deeper than the mystery of Sleep.
Lichens grew in height and power
Until a wordless bursting song
Of distorted ecstasies was flung from his great tangled thunderous lungs.
His table full of wires hung from santoors, tamboors and guitars
Each felt his fingers drum the beat
That met with Amos’ pounding feet.
Each cymbal crash was met with peals of sweetest steel and
Falsettos clashed in harmony with Cisneros’ Rickenbacker rumble,
In ecstasies to Sinai’s tip climbed bass and drum and samples hit
The core of every pulsing heart until we were back at the start.
The end of Addis shuddered down with calls of sadness,
Darkness frowned upon the stage
And a single note more was not made
That fateful night,
Om had played.