Dogbowl
Tit... (An Opera)

One, joy grabs me again. Two, Syd peeks out. Three, I can't sit still. Four, I howl at the moon. Five, I bark against the wind. Six, it's all too beautiful...

An off-kilter melodic instinct, you see, stuff like this you have to be born with. From the tap of the songs, the water comes out very fresh and already supplemented with fizzy hydrolitina. No need for the fridge, no need for a packet. Everything is already ready to use.

Here we have a young man, fresh from studies, pockets still worn out from the hundred summaries of whimsical music, who, along with a producer worthy of the best Eno, enjoys shuffling the cards. However, all not coldly, but with inspired inspiration.

I'll tell you right away folks, this is a masterpiece with few equals. Perhaps, even the most beautiful album of the eighties. But it is also true that I have just discovered it and am therefore, so to speak, smitten. And now, like anyone taken by passion, I am about to rave a little.

…

The muses gathered in great assembly. Never seen so many smart girls at once. And nearby perhaps a little bird as well as the famous worm that prefers wandering souls to light wood.

Things must have gone as the manuals of madness say, namely "a flash of a muse’s eye is captured by a flying being and then by a worm in search of an ear." With flashes following one another and in the same manner the proper flights.

Here, I imagine that, regarding the beings mentioned so far, it is mainly the muses who tickle your imagination. Oh, what a shame, what is wrong with the little bird and the worm? Well, let me tell you, nothing, in fact, if you want to know, they would be quite useful to the economy of my tale.

But enough, we all know the little story of that small hair and that ox cart. Forward with the muses, then, Full speed ahead.

The first is the one Syd carried on the bike's cannon. The second presides over fast and carefree rhythms. The third is the distiller of moody and quirky melodies. The fourth confuses meanings like the wind.

And these of course are the four main ones, much like south north west east or spades clubs hearts diamonds.

Going on, the list of women that destiny has assigned you starts. The fifth might be the bartender from the bar downstairs. The sixth the coolest among your schoolmates. The seventh the one you played with as a child.

Then, since listing them all would keep us here until tomorrow, let's stop. Besides, it's wise to listen to the sages who, since the world began, have always gladly discussed the perfection of seven, a very wonderful and nevertheless odd number.

Which odd is this album too, odd and left-handed.

But stopping at seven doesn't preclude us from saying that our assembly is a bit like that neighborhood in Paris. And therefore: girls on every street, girls in every alley, girls at every door, girls at the window. All for a fee, savasandir. Paradise always has a price.

...

"Wobbly, foolish, wonderful," says someone online. Let those who want to be happy be.

Pure pop ecstasy and happy/unhappy extravagance.

"Dead strawberries haunt me," just to name one, "I a pigeon, you a seagull," just to name another. All so fresh beyond fresh eggs, way beyond the latest news.

And then loads of muses and therefore loads of stuff. The jangle, the acid ballad, the nervous step, the psych scents, the playful avant-garde, the crazy little tune, the bursts of melancholy. In short, the magical instinct scattered among streets, little streets, and tiny streets.

Some references? The aristocratic elegance of Kevin Ayers, some Eno pop solutions, some Velvet tastes, some Julian, as in Cope. And, as already mentioned, Syd.

Holding it all together is the Dogbowl quid, a trifle I don't think I can define. Except by returning to the image of the bicycle.

So let's do this: in the basket, put apple pie, orangeade, and a book of poems. Then start pedaling. The songs are 22, more or less like the stages of the Giro d'Italia. But don’t worry, there are no hills.