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How Manchester rises, we do not know. The only thing that matters are the tender prophecies of death that the wolf tells the sheep.
If you hear the new English wave, the dark and terse one, there's nothing wrong with that; youth never dies, only we kill childhood.
You can, you can be English without licking the lichen of pop, also because that rotten wood smells like food embargo.
You can, you can be fresh even by citing those names we all know, do I have to tell you them? The Fall, Joy Division, The Smiths, how beautifully gray is Manchester, right?
Wire, "pietà" wants to be oriented towards the Idles, while a word is vomited from my brain: Art-Core Punk. Amusing? Seductive.
How beautiful it is to say Art-Core Punk, it seems to echo "Hard Heart" and there are few hard hearts, but they are the instruments that are violenced.
A term that encompasses a genre that does not exist, that I like to exist, that probably now exists but no one has truly thought about it.
Now they call it Post-Punk II, like an emperor, like a pope, like our parents' records, always hard, always prog.
But whoever has a romantically imperfect name, because it is successive, is born dead, is born mortal, like those who wield material power, even those who wear the mitre.
Let's document ourselves, document ourselves, an exhibition document of something that exists and does not, of something that makes each of us human:
Curiositas.
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