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Rating:
More than a critic, what we need here is a psychologist, or an exorcist.
I take this album somewhat randomly, as a significant representative of a problem: the music from the 1980s cartoons.
For almost ten years, my ears and neurons have been afflicted by these repellent tunes. Half of the bands earning money here in Tuscany cheerfully cover the horrid little songs that accompanied the most popular cartoons of that era.
Jeeg Robot, L'uomo tigre, Goldrake, Lupin have become a sort of emotional passepartout: they are talked about at home with friends, in pubs, and venues throughout the region. Want to break the ice on a night where you know almost no one? Shift the conversation to Gundam or Mazinga Z: it works. Damn if it works. Perfect strangers suddenly drop all their defenses and recognize you as a comrade… the most frivolous and frequented party in the world: that of the 1980s cartoon fanatics.
I've heard thirty-year-olds discuss for hours the double meanings of Pollon's lyrics, forty-year-olds moved by recalling the exploits of Queen Imica and her three ministers Amaso, Mimashi, and Osama Bin Laden. Oops. I think I'm confused…
This is not a review, it's a petition addressed to all thirty/forty-year-olds: enough.
We are making ourselves ridiculous.
I understand that in confusing times, amid the collapse of certainties, it is very comforting to recognize ourselves together, at least in a little song from when we were kids, but everything has its limit.
The cult of the 1980s cartoons is an insidious evil, to be eradicated.
Would you have taken your father seriously if he had spent years reminiscing about his rocking horse or his tin soldiers? I don’t think so. How do you expect, big children, to be respected by new generations if you get caught with a tear in your eye listening to Heidi?
I repeat: this is not a review, it's a petition. Maybe it's even a prayer: enough.
Enough living in this eternal return.
Enough laughing complicitly remembering when we were kids.
Enough peddling trash as poetry, just because there are no better poems.
There must come a moment when we are not children, not old, but simply, just people. We should be careful: those crowding the stages of these sad cover bands have a problem to solve: becoming an adult without feeling old.
For fear of aging, we chase fluffy fetishes of the bygone time and risk forgetting the real magic of childhood, adolescence, and adulthood.
Enough with the '80s, enough with this eternal return, enough with this kind of return to the womb that is nostalgia for the past.
Besides, our forefathers had Gianni Rodari, Astrid Lindgren, Saint-Exupery.
We got Cristina D'Avena and, for the older ones, Drive In.
I don't see what there is to boast about: a dignified silence would be better.
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