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I take said work as irrefutable evidence that excellence in everything, from material to moral, resides only and solely in the Mediterranean basin, with a preference for Italy. You will tell me “and where do you leave the Tigris and Euphrates?” I agree, but they do not reach the "imperial visions" of our kind. And don't even mention the Anglo-Saxon stock, devoted to barbarism, war, and alcohol, who still haven’t figured out that water can also be used for washing.
That being said, the adorable Amanda, already the androgynous muse of Dalí's art androgyny, with her perpetual Sphinx-like presence that continuously triggers the little question inside us (without an answer so far): "what will we find underneath?", the white African Queen (vamp{ire}?) lends herself, with her tiger and leopard skins, to narrate an Italo disco that the land of Albion will later raid, making a loooot of money by passing it off as refined pop they invented.
And there lie the emulators (to be honest, still very good at emulsifying this revelation that is 'this record') starting from facts already cooked and eaten in 1983, where the Italian (and we emphasize Italian) Roberto Cacciapaglia, and all his ever-Italo creative entourage, invents all the disco pop (Pet) synth (Shop) of the upcoming English boys (Boys); after all "Boys, Boys, Boys" sang Sabrina, two b's like the boobs she carried (it doesn’t mean anything but I wanted to write it).
And so upon listening, there is no spurious wonder at the hidden treasure from the monotone Homeric narrating voice of Lear, but we are even hermaphroditically amazed by the resulting music that cuts the first groove in our convictions as musical snob darlings where the tam-tam-products a new situation in the landscape of easy-listening music, elevating everything towards cultured-wild shores where the rhythmic carnival of bunga-bunga (the real one) is concrete in dodging a tactile material usufruct and involving the (disco) psychic sphere remaining in the sexual with an unexpected non-sinful pleasure in not attempting compromising gropes, but fantasizing “monstrously forbidden dreams” ephemeral.
And it’s precisely this contradiction that resets all those musical abortions that since the sixties have sold millions of records and are praised as strokes of genius when instead they have wasted time and caused damage with their mind-numbing melodies and refrains made in the UK.
And a muse that oracles sinuous, intriguing atmospheres, always promising things “tomorrow”, envisaging bukkake with the Badula tribe but doesn’t give it to anyone, was needed to make us dream of sinful tantric discos that materialize in abstaining from ejaculation and avoiding post-drain dullness: Always Hard!
Therefore, just as Our Lady was impregnated by the Holy Spirit, this is a Madonna of a record!
Come on Amanda! Let us see it, let us touch it! Or “let us”?...
Amanda Lear Fan Club
1 rue François 1er
75008 Paris
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