They say that to dream of snakes is to be on the cusp of change - that they herald a transformative rebirth, born of the shedding of that which no longer serves. Perhaps this was floating around inside the minds of Wellington duo, Serpent Dream, when they chose their name. Or perhaps they were inspired by the Mike Oldfield track, whose abrupt conclusion simulates a cataclysmic, earth changing apocalypse.
Either way, expectations are high as Kelda Morris and James Costin take to the stage amidst a myriad of instruments - and other things from which sounds could be coaxed or wrested. On a small would-be altar at the centre of the stage candles are lit and the ritual begins.
From the first note we are captivated, inhabited, transfixed. Layers of sound flow and roll over each other like ocean waves. Costin intentionally circles the room, sounding a chime whose note is so pure it seems to reverberate in tune with my soul. Morris whispers urgent utterances that seem to come through them rather than from them. They tempt a haunting melody from their stringed instrument to call and respond with Costin’s mellifluous finger style guitar. Bones are struck and rubbed together. A feather is used as a bow. A computer is doing something that might be magic. Behind (at least until the screen collapses, to the musicians’ laughter) watery projected shapes morph and whorl like Rorschach tests for the third eye.
As a person who writes about music, convention dictates that I attempt the slippery task of translating experiences into words. Here, that task verges on the impossible. I am simply incapable of taking notes. I am simply incapable of doing anything but being utterly present, in this moment, on this journey. My spirit is shaken loose of my body to float somewhere above proceedings, enthralled in transcendental bliss. Time ceases to have meaning and I am flooded with a rush of every emotion I have ever felt. The applause, when it comes between movements, feels like an intrusion. One would no more clap in church or on the banks of the Ganga. To do so feels irreverent. I am left with visceral, post-climactic shivers, a keen sense of post-nut clarity that feels like I have been cleansed.
Ritual Lullabies for the Void is less a gig than a sacrament, but one that is pure and true, devoid of the trappings and hypocrisy of organised religion. Rather it is an aural meditation, an exercise in connection, an exultation of our capacity to change and grow, and to blur the lines between reality and dreams.
by Rosheen FitzGerald
