Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
B.R.M.C.

THE REVIEW

Today, during one of my solitary wanderings around the city, I met an old acquaintance of mine at the bar counter; it had been a while since I last saw him. In front of a light beer and stoically battling the mosquitoes infesting the place, we started to chat: a skilled conversationalist with a captivating flair, this acquaintance of mine knows how to capture the attention of others, seamlessly jumping from topic to topic with absolute nonchalance. However, after a few minutes, scraping away a bit of his logorrhea and self-assuredness, I found in him a good dose of superficial knowledge without depth, of uncritical citation where personal evaluation and opinion are somewhat lacking.

That said, the hour I spent with him was pleasant and, in some ways, "refreshing."

Back home, I dug up an old novel by Maksim Gorky, "Childhood." An enjoyable and occasionally interesting writer, he has, in my opinion, the flaw of not sufficiently seeking a truly unique style, simply piling up and diluting significant artistic influences without giving a personal twist to his artistic journey. He echoes the psychodramas of Dostoevsky's characters (without having his exceptional psychological penetration), aspires to the global vision of Russian society and history akin to Tolstoy (without his acumen and polyphony), and strives to find a writing style reminiscent of Turgenev's soft and velvety prose (without his stylistic and compositional touch).

That said, the hour I spent with him was pleasant and, in some ways, "refreshing."

I've just finished re-listening to the debut album by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. It seemed like a fitting way to coherently close the day.