I met you soon after Tangerine Dream turned five albums old. Colleagues Chris Franke and Peter Bauman helped you craft the timeless Phaedra for new label Virgin.
Purchased by instalments from my Friday/Saturday Record Store job, I took the album home one mid-winter night to a bedroom warmed by the faint splutter of a kerosene heater, its punched metal top projecting an imperceptible glow on the ceiling.
Lights off, the music unfolded through my own inky stratosphere, filling the space with alien drift and romantic pulse. My mind expanded, as did my pupils, until the blue kerosene luminescence resolved into a cosmic mandala hovering above.
Drifting, fragmentary visions.
Edgar, my world is emptier for your sudden passing. Yet in your constellation of albums, none shines more brightly than Phaedra, whose questing electronics transmit a human beauty; out, in. I wrapped myself in its beguiling strangeness and unfathomable beauty; then, now.
The verse—a poor thing, stillborn another late-winter night forty-two revolutions on—is my tribute.
put on a coat woven from the night sky
each button a portal to infinite dreams
5 Stars (of course)
This is the final instalment (for now) in the #200wordchallenge series.
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