Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party
Semo Solo Scemi

THE REVIEW

The zany cabaret, complete with a piss balloon attached, is a urinotherapy that counters the dire effects of this present "Mondo Mortacci." The third chapter of the "trucilogia" expands to universality, launching shining arrows of a transcendental coattismo that reach everywhere. In a period full of pedosatanism, shamelessly shown in all forms, they would deserve a medal for mocking the 666 with the three S's of a "Semo Solo Scemi" that claims the right path in this Cambodia of Kali Yuga. Then there are the facts in music and words that reinforce the detachment from the ridiculous world surrounding us.

The scorching revisionism of our past in the track "1984" touches me personally because Liverpool also appears to me, because I was there at that Champions League final, in the south curve where the penalties were taken, where everything ended as we know, where my annus horribilis academic '83-1984 dotted the "i"s, after some months before my father died and my academic and vital performance went to hell, and despite everything, we moved forward supported by the involuntary muscles of heartbeat and breathing. Fortunately, the transformation of pain over time luckily leads you to rectify with absolutes: "The past is past and doesn't return, but it remains, stagnates, and influences the present," not bad to already notice this.

The damnation of Romanity is the blessing of being reincarnated in the suburbs (coatto wave) in that Roman Bermuda Triangle whose vertices we identify in the Tiburtino, Prenestino, Casilino neighborhoods, with the ever-live option of the Tuscolano, where alchemically everything transforms and the existential paradigm resets on an absent dialectical crucifixion and a present inner dialect. The Roman fluid exposes the sophism of deception surrounding us and stabilizes a sufism of a spinning top that centrifuges echoes of "Embè?" I too join the scruffy wave with the sweetish odor of the memory of malagrottare dumps having been born and lived in Primavalle, north Rome. But it's in the east that you can catch all the wonderful variants of the cloaca maxima of a decadence that by itself forms another Empire.

The musical compositions are impeccable with rhythms describing frayed universes where unraveling is routine to train more and more for "vattelo a pijà 'n der culo" and for psychic amputations like "toji qua'a mano che tta 'a cionco"... An addiction to "ma vattenaffanculo!", with Bombolo's blessing, that becomes a key to overcoming our miseries. And the 'sti cazzi replaces the scam of competing; conscious boredom and maladjustment help us to escape the game of the system; indigence and indolence create an impermeabilization to the trap of participating with our tacit consent to then paralyze a free will that is only reflexive.

Fears are exorcised with Glu Glu alarms and venomous pompous pronouncements that infinitely extend the mockery of the April Fool's fish. The sentence to Romanity, once tasted, is irresistible, let alone when you are born directly, let alone when, like me, you have even moved to another country where you inevitably export the idle strolls of "a noi ce piace de magna e beve e nun ce piace de lavora'..." Honest is the denial of a lying lifestyle of "grosso e fregnone" sacrifice. There's a refusal of the cinematic-style sugar-coating where constructed poses, styles, and aesthetics reflecting falsehood are abandoned.

And don't you find perfection in passages like "Semo Solo Scemi and we seek shelter in a place of the mind where music blasts, wafts of smoke, darkness where you can't see a damn thing, and gothic or non-gothic silhouettes. Goth, non-goth, mein goth, goth mi tanz" (from Glu Glu Glu), where perfection is not intended as a celebration of the phony omnipotence that makes you believe you can do everything, but as the mystification of self-mockery. And we are happy to note in the apparent mixture of references a proactive projection in labeling "Ambaradan" (which rhymes for me with "Merulana" and not with tiki-taka) the agitated current events of this "crazy silly world," the round round dance is with the "cavallo impera tondo" and not with "casca il mondo." And here the donkey falls, which is in each of us because the combo always has a little choir in the background saying: "c'hai creduto, faccia di velluto"... Eschatological messes, in short.

There's no escape for bullshit, you don't talk bullshit, you are bullshitters. Impersonal absolutes are definitively reached in detached observations: "E viva le pedane quanno so' piene de scemi che se movono co' fumo e raggi laser, co' fumo e raggi laser...", where there's a ruthless yet truthful synthesis of today’s mesmerism aka "nun se capisce un cazzo"... Democratically, the lack of broad-chested statesmen is increasingly felt.

The scruffy dragging of everyone's boredom is listlessly treated by those who have completed the bizarre connections of God's inscrutable designs. "He tells you if you're going nuts" prior to flamboyantly bouncing back in confusion that the BJLFP resolve by giving a universal reading key which in "King Kong non è come Godzilla" is evident: "Non c'era bisogno de distrugge' Tokyo, bastava 'no zampirone." The ephemeral anxieties of a race toward the slavery of an exhibitonal reflection of ourselves are stopped by shadows of "pizzardoni": "I seek self-determination with self-realizing goals, for a self-centered self-celebration. But I have the car with hazard lights in double row, and now the cop is passing by"...

So let's not bust our balls too much because in most situations... just a mosquito coil is enough.