Best of his breed, our 800-pound gorilla hits the ground running and gets into the left lane. Blocking and tackling, he takes it to the next level, re-contextualizing, giving 110 per cent with weapons-grade manoeuvres. It was all hands on deck moving forward into the new paradigm and the view from 30,000 feet up proved exhilarating. A fire is lit across the piece. He drills it down, runs the numbers in his wheelbox, brings his A-game, takes from the low-hanging fruit, tears down the silos and puts socks on the octopus. Using synergy and the big picture to move the goal post, our gorilla thinks outside of the box – working smarter, not harder – to close the deal. At the end of the day, it was the greatest value-added win-win game-changing oxygen-move to ever wax poetic behind the eight-ball.

In other words… Pelican. Back after a four-year interruption (and following a Pablum-y last album), Forever Becoming has detonated. The corybantic and continually-impossible-to-please majority of instrumental metal fans usually find something sizeable to repine (“too chewy,” “too stringy,” “too dark,” etc.), but the verity is this: music absent of lyrics leaves all impressions of clairsentience in the psyche of the listener. It can rip you to shreds and staple you back together; make you heart-sore and palliated synchronously. It can take you full circle in a time-elapsed passage through all four seasons – sunrise to sunset, tranquil summer breezes to hyperborean winter disasters. It’s thunder-cracking and gnostic without uttering a single word. Or, in clichéd business jargon: It’s a whore’s market out there. And Pelican’s the golden goose.

By Lisa Marklinger

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