If I can hear the slight echo of the original version of ‘Song To The Siren’ haunting the depths of this utterly romantic song, it might just be that I play too much Tim Buckley, but I suspect it is also because John Dorian has the blood of the classic singer-songwriter running through his veins.
Not to say this is anything but awesomely original, but it runs on the same delicacy and deftness, is imbued with the same sense of timelessness, and employs similar gossamer textures as that classic song. As the chiming piano flows are gently energised by the bassline, the vocals broaden and drift into ethereal choruses, and scintillating sonics float through, you realise the song isn’t getting heavier in the usual musical sense; rather, it gets broader, deeper, is heightened and more… well, just more… more present, more commanding, yet remains graceful and opaque, weightless and wonderful.
The song is a metaphor, its poised poetics describing the two titular birds navigating the riverine ebbs and flows of emotional turmoil and heartache, conflicted feelings, and finally understanding. If, as he claims, he is a descendant of Dorian Gray, it isn’t an ageing painting locked away in his attic; he surely has a piano that can weather passing fads and fashions and conjure timeless music for him to take into the real world.
