Gus Defelice. The name itself feels like a well-oiled machine – intricate, precise, and humming with a purpose I’m not entirely sure I grasp. “Starlight,” a lone single in a world of albums and playlists, pulses like a freshly discovered constellation. You know, the kind where they announce the official findings and then all the maps start printing with the new location…except this constellation moves in its own damn sky.

There’s no throat singing here, no wailing heartbreak. Just metal. Progressive metal, they say. Which to me sounds a lot like math equations gone wild and somehow grown into something unexpectedly gorgeous. It’s like watching a clock work backwards, gears and all. “Starlight” tackles transformation, they tell me. Resilience. Like those ancient trees that grow sideways on cliffs. I’m picturing one now, clutching to the edge of something, branches twisting defiantly against the wind… and it makes complete sense in this strange, clanging kind of way. But also, are you thinking about how crazy time zones are too, suddenly?

This is pure instrumental fire, mind you. No voices muddling the message. Just Gus’s fingers on frets, creating a soundscape where complex layers intertwine like the patterns in a really good Persian rug – only this rug would probably eat your socks. You can feel the pivotal moments they speak of, those life shifters, echoing in every run and every powerful beat. It’s the sound of a chrysalis turning into something other, something shiny and new, perhaps with a couple extra legs that they forgot to mention in the science textbook.

I’m wondering now if the dinosaurs even cared about stars. They were too busy… well, being dinosaurs I guess. But then I bet they had their moments of transformation, too, back when that meteor showed up uninvited for lunch. What if all of existence just kept repeating in its own way, same recipe but slightly altered on each turn? Maybe “Starlight” is just reminding us how to move through all this wild change; like dancing through a maze… blindfolded.

It’s not something you hear; it’s something you feel… a pulse against your own. A moment, expanded. And when it’s over you are… different, subtly, in the way that happens when someone really sees you for just a second. Then it’s gone, echoing into its own starlit void.

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