Aura Bora
Was

Every now and then I wonder if reviewing (or as some say "epigraphing") these unknown bands really serves any purpose. I mean, if I review the new U2 album, I'll certainly get more comments, I'll certainly have more interaction. If I review the new Ride album, I get the same unchanged effect; so why?

Music is art, and as long as there's the opportunity to bring something luminous out of the garbage, be it a diamond or bottle shards, I'll do it. I do it for the community and without asking for money. Pure research.

Anarchy of suggestions, no rules on who, what, how, and when to talk about it, freedom and unruliness, ignorance, and socialism 2.0.

Here in Bologna, lying on the bed with a Vietnamese sunset, hills with a tropical flavor, and cold that breaks and comforts bones overnight. I'm listening to an album that has nothing more to say than what other groups have already wanted to express; death to feelings, death to nostalgia but don't warn me before I'm stabbed.

So I hear extremely carefree twee pop, noise pop from a hipsterized social center, actively proposing towards the gentrification of the faulty. I hear the overly visceral melodic hardcore of Superchunk and only once the slimy guitars of Seam (heaven forbid) and I'm not surprised by the mood swings and atonal changes. I'm not surprised by the lack of experimentation, nor by the lack of Clinton-Era catch-ism.

This ocean of lights tears my heart apart, and I wish I could go back to being lulled by the dry glans hammering of Shellac, I want to return to the lucid hallucinatory darkness and let myself be stung by the terror of never seeing the light again. Maybe the light isn't always warm, maybe the light has no warmth, and in the oblivion of total darkness, there is salvation. There is.