Björk
Post

THIS REVIEW IS SELF-REFERENTIAL, PARANOID, AND A LITTLE ICELANDIC.

I leave the office located in a chic area with detachment and frugality. 4:57 p.m. Keys in my pocket, phone still off to avoid small daily family annoyances. I need absolute concentration in my work. So, zero distractions, it's not for me to leave my head outside the company database. My scruple is beyond my sterile imagination. Everything is average in my life as a 35-year-old. Paola is reflective, an honest woman, but there are too many times we take and leave each other. Today I am your reassuring George, and tomorrow, tomorrow another damn and I am watching the almost empty bottom of the Beck's. Medium, of course. Like my appearance: height, muscle mass, and sex. Like my dark blue 2001 fourth-series Golf. Like my apartment shared with my little brother Luca, a 24-year-old still a carefree university student, and lucky him still a little unaware of the precarious universe... The traffic light at this damn intersection gets on my nerves, you never know if a damn little man inside is waiting for an accountant curled up in doubt to send him a bit into a loop. 14 minutes past five, home awaits. I need to check the teletext on page 245, maybe Chivu has decided. The Becali, great sons of bitches, eh. Giulia's Mini isn't there, down at the parking lot, so there's a free spot. Giuly is quite a hottie, sometimes in my thoughts I have betrayed Paola for her. The elevator is available, it hasn't been called. Okay, going up and another feeble day has reached its destination, its destination. Certainly not the one I would have wanted, the ideal I had planned in third-year bookkeeping.

ANONYMOUS HOUSE, ANONYMOUS PEOPLE, ANONYMOUS ME (AND ANONYMOUS THE FREEZE-DRIED FOODS I TOOK AT AGE 3).

Bjork Gudmundsdottir, from Reykjavik, knew fear and anguish in Bangkok in 1996; when practically exhausted, she unleashed against an intrusive crew more interested in her son Sindri than in herself. Then came the bomb package kindly sent to her by a sick fan. In short, the little Icelandic had some problems. Facts that testified to Bjork's rising popularity, and the near-worldwide success of "Post". Perhaps her masterpiece, immersed as it is in the poignant waters and the tumultuous strings from where "Isobel" seeks refuge and in the techno-industrial army of "Army of me". In the 50s swinging musical of "It's oh so quiet" (from Betty Hutton) and the electro-polychrome of the fascinating "post-atomic" ballad "Hyper ballad" (indeed). In the rhythmic flights and percussion of "I miss you" to the sensual electronic gathering that fills "Possibly maybe". In an ancestral harp played who knows where, perhaps the cave in which Isobel "lives" her solitude, among the flights of fancy of the small Nordic genius's voice in "Cover me". Finally, the emancipation from the outside world through the "Headphones", in a sort of intimate compromise with our internal "why?". Often larger than life itself. "I'm fast asleep". 'I like this resonance, it elevates me. I don't recognize myself, this is very interesting. My headphones, they saved my life. Your tape, it lulled me to sleep. I'm fast asleep now...'

Meanwhile, the diligent Giulio (