Moon gazing has been an enthralling pastime for much of human history. For instance, the names of the various phases of the moon in Japanese correspond with the suggested activity observers should engage in while waiting for the celestial queen to make her debut each evening. The moon that rises on the 17th, for instance, is known as "tachimachizuki," which means that you can stand and witness the moon on that night's ascent without fear of taxing your weary legs, while "fukemachizuki," the name for the moon that rises on the 20th, suggests that you're better off catching a few winks before Tsukuyomi's lantern lights up the sky. In South America, there are some who say that witnessing a lunar eclipse can leave beauty marks on the face of one's future children—a sort of permanent reminder of the lunar guardian's blessing and distant stewardship of the people below, even when it itself is subsumed by the dark, or cast out by the light of day. You might not always see the moon, but you can still witness its gifts each morning when you gaze in the mirror. Reminders of an absence are painful, but unavoidable in life. Sometimes the only relief from anguish is song. "Cry Moon" by Venezuela's Bucle Lunar gives voice to this amiable sort of lament, with plush melodies and pale loops of powdery tranquil groove. Waiting and pining for the return to some truant felicity or tranquil degree of composure appears to be a recurring theme on their debut album
¿Qué pasó en Medellín?, of which "Cry Moon" is only one of its many splendid shades of luminance. The steady thumping progression and subtle electricity of the lush dream-pop pulse of "Tachycardia, thump thump" and the affable push of "Me muevo" prove capable of dislocating one from the entropy of their angst, while the slow embrace of the languidly expectant swirl of "Atemporal" and the persistent undertow of enticement and tenacity of "Terca" resist any reversion into despair. Sympathies filter in from abroad to gracefully envelop one's ears on the motorik psyched-out-mirage and cumbia-infused flow of "La kumbia," as well as the whimsically consecrated closer "Miranda en Belén," a track that is soaked in tears, whether they are of joy or deep sorrow, which may be an oscillating facet of speculation. Like the eternal circuit of the moon's perambulation around our sphere, there is no true end to the state of things, only phases and new beginnings; nights are long but not bereft of solace, and any absence felt is only a yearning yet to be fulfilled.
