My name is Carmelo. I'm not afraid to experiment with mood, style - and even some daring improvisation - to extend the range of both musician and listener. I write the music for The Suicidal Poets, The Band has consistently retained their "instant" pop appeal, while yet refusing to sell out and go all out commercial. There can be advantages, after all, in sticking to bouncy pop music for fluffy bunnies, soap addicts, and curb crawling film producers. Every performing artist wants the standing ovation, see the crowd go wild. Some financial remuneration for the weeks, months and years of hard work can be helpful. Taking risks is, well, risky. I admire anyone who puts out a track 12 minutes and 15 seconds long for a free mp3 download for one thing. I was wondering what the band would come up with that would play almost as long as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I was not disappointed. Once again, my hat goes off to the band. I am not a great film fan, though, since I like my mind to conjure its own pictures, and in any case, the rot was already well set in even in the great silent days. I mean, look what happened with Faustus - it wasn't only Hollywood that dumbed down the classics. It was happening right at the very beginning, even with those incredible art sets. The medium was more powerful than the guy directing the camera, the writers, the plot, the actors or the audience. One day it will stop having any effect at all, then we will dream again... Their tracks comes in with BIG film music sound. It's really a great intro, the helicopter's eye view of the Acropolis, wheeling down and panning out to the arena of the Gods. The scene quickly melts into one of the band rehearsing before the gig. A choppy welter of fusion riff, which drops down suddenly into cavernous booming depths. Then I walk to the window and look out onto a strange vista. Suddenly that dream of last night began to make sense. I knew that I should never have given the blue bottle with the bone to that girl in the doorway. Then spent all night looking for that bone and that bottle, but by the end it had turned into a small furry creature that lived in a caravan in the next-door neighbours back garden. Staying up to 6 am mixing tracks certainly does weird things to your head. My favour Poemwas written while I WAS WATCHING A MOVIE ABOUT A GUY EXPERIENCING NIGHTMARES WHILE IN A COMA AND THEN MY THOUGHTS TRAVELED ELSEWHERE TO POETS HAVING A WAR OF WORDS.THE LINE KISS THE SKY ONLY TO BE RETURNED PERTAINS TO THE FACT THAT WHEN WE DIE WE MAY BE FORGOTTEN BUT NOT OUR ART OR OUR POETRY WHICH IS WHAT I MEANT BY ONLY TO BE RETURNED IT WILL LIVE ONTHE CONCEPT OF POURING INK ALL OVER YOU WAS THE ONLY WAY OF BEING ABLE TO VISUALISE SOMETHING THAT YOU CANT SEE.
Scenes from my nightmare,pictures from a coma.
Extremist freaking out, hiker going nowhere.
Where suicidal poets twist and wrestle with swollen words, that can't be swallowed
but kiss the sky only to be returned.
I want to pour ink all over you and leave my mark.
I want to hear you call me from beyond
and lay your icy fingers on my form.
Moisten my body with your breath and penetrate my soul.
Within your clenched fist I am trapped inside me, beneath your skin is where I can be free.
I want to pour ink all over you and leave my mark.
I want to hear you call me from beyond and lay your icy fingers on my form.
Suicidal poets exchanging words which bear no weight,
Torment my brain and leave me bloody speechless.
I'm left alone to gather broken pieces.
I want to pour ink all over you and leave my mark.
I want to hear you call me from beyond and lay your icy fingers on my form.
http://www.myspace.com/suicidalpoets