Daïtro
Y

Things go as they go, there's nothing to be done. Certain music is meant to be listened to in certain moments; forcing it diminishes it.

I hold unforgettable moments of a Napoli dressed in autumn and silent at dawn, too late to mess with the cars, too early for everything else. The shutters down, my footsteps echoing between the dilapidated buildings and someone shouting at me, while shouting to someone on the other side of the world, while others sip the first coffee of the day, that «you've written on my body that it's not the end.»
Today I spend my days facing a window, writing about grand systems, synthesizing and offending the possible, for an audience that will make scorched earth of my words, toilet paper if everything goes right, convinced that not only have I lost the reins—if I ever had them—but that they are also crushed by the hooves of the horse of the knight that precedes me. It's a different melancholy, arrived with spring, with the sun—orange in the afternoon—passing through the blinds. It offends my eyes, but it's beautiful, and with it, this album has arrived.

"Y", from 2009, by Daitro, from Lyon. Screamo—but not only—in French: something annoying just to think of, really annoying, yet beautiful.

This album is a concentrate of sadnesses—more melancholies than sadnesses—, a greatest hits of what's wrong in the lives of those who sing it and yet it has a spark, an unexpected vitality, a stance. It's spring, I must tame myself: if you don't live now, when do you live? There you go.

Beyond Screamo—and this is the commandment of those who practice it today, but with alternating success, of course—; almost post-Rock; almost old-school Emo, but more diluted, less Hardcore... after all, these genre classifications exist only for those who prefer critique to practice. Like a marriage between Indian Summer and Portraits of Past. Essentially, what sounds good in these not-so-vivid sunny days. Stuff for springtime sunsets. Stuff for romantics, in short.

Today—as usual—I was listening to it, and while it seemed more beautiful than usual, I found, at the end of a good book, this beautiful phrase.

«The man of clear intellect is he who frees himself from these fantastic ideas and faces life, realizing everything in it is problematic, feeling lost. And since this is the pure truth—that living means feeling lost—whoever accepts this has already begun to find themselves, has already started discovering their authentic reality, is already on stable ground. Instinctively, like a shipwrecked person, they will seek something to cling to, and this tragic peremptory gaze, absolutely sincere because it is an attempt to save themselves, will allow them to bring order to the chaos of their life. These are the only truthful ideas: the ideas of the shipwrecked. The rest is rhetoric, posing, trivial farce. Those who do not truly feel lost will inevitably become lost; and can never find themselves again, can never meet their own reality.»

It seems to fit well with the album.