Dream Theater
Black Clouds & Silver Linings

THE REVIEW

Among the many sociologically important events of the third millennium that will go down in history, I am sure that a rightful place will be reserved for the phenomenon of boy bands. Commercial products designed on the drawing board to sell to crowds of sexually enraged young girls as an outlet for their burning spirits, furthermore guaranteeing the advantage of not giving up the status of pure, virtuous souls that so befits them. Oh yes, because our highly evolved way of thinking would never allow a girl in full puberty to have sexual desires as nature dictates, but only pure fantasies of romantic prince-colored loves, under penalty of the harsh judgment of the entire community.

Inhuman, you might say, perhaps stupid. But our society works like this, so much so that this phenomenon now appears normal and well established to us. For those who blame everything on machismo, it would be appropriate to consider that there is an equally inhuman counterpart in the male world. No, I'm not talking about "girl bands" as one might obviously think, but rather some metal bands. Yes, because many boys have the need – the opposite of girls – to show virility and masculinity and hide their embarrassingly sugary, romantic, and gaudy soul. It would be embarrassing, indeed, for a 20-year-old boy to show passion for feelings worthy of the worst gigidalessiani melodramas, or to be caught by some friend while coming out of the supermarket with one of those Harmony novels that stand in front of the checkouts at bargain prices. How would the others feel, then, if they knew about the rhymes dedicated to the unattainable high school sweetheart written in secret diaries hidden in the false bottom of their personal drawer next to the videotapes with all the episodes of Fantaghirò?

Hence the only escape for these poor sensitive and defenseless young men, who feel the pressure of a conformist society that forces them into patterns that do not belong to them, materializes as only one: buying the discography of Dream Theater. So they can languish in tears of passion on the "slow" solo of "A Change Of Seasons", or touch absolute sentiment on "Through Her Eyes", while maintaining in front of everyone the austere appearance of the serious man who admires the "technical" details of "real music". They can say with the face of true tough guys, "Oh, did you hear the roll in 17/16 at the fifth minute and fourteen seconds of Erotomania? I tried to redo it yesterday and sprained my wrist! What a monster Portnoy!” and in the meantime think "Poor Julian, what a miserable end he made because of that bastard brother of his, ultimately, between him and Victoria it was true love! But Victoria still lives, love always wins, love is davvero the dance of eternity!!”

At the concert, then, when Dream Theater showcase their muscles on stage, engage in spectacular hedonistic performances and show off their testosterone by pounding on instruments like blacksmiths on anvils, then poor sensitive boys, in front of so much display of virile power, will think "I too want to be like you, John!, I too want to be like you, Mike!", and they'll go crazy boasting swagger and pack spirit. Then, all together, they will sing "The Silent Man" and "Wait For Sleep" moved, in a triumph of “volemose bbene” which unites everyone under the same aegis. All will weep for joy at seeing that their neighbor is at heart a sensitive and noble soul exactly like them, and will feel less alone. Maybe they will even hug without even knowing each other, after all, it's all perfectly guaranteed "100% male", because the "slow" pieces by Dream Theater aren't whiny drag like evil detractors insinuate, but just the demonstration of how under the apparent coldness of the sound lies the sensitivity of a true misunderstood artist, just like them.

So, this album here, whose title I've already frankly forgotten, and the triggered fan reaction that will inevitably ensue, are nothing but the soundtrack of such a dissociative disease. Because if one were to truly open their ears, abandon all behavioral schemes based on idolatry, and simply "listen" evaluating only the music, well, if any normal person were to place this CD in their player, then they would realize that this album simply serves no purpose. It consists only of an infinity of chewed and spit clichés, and that's it. It's worth about as much as the plastic it's made of, and nothing more. The difference between a respectable musician and Dream Theater is the same as that between an inventor engineer and an employed engineer: one creates, the other applies standard procedures, yet both are graduates in the same field, perhaps with the same grade. Not that I have anything against employees, but darn it, I don't think it makes sense to go crazy over them for the way they fill out forms, or maybe even spend 50 euros to see them at work on a stage. My problem is coming to terms with the reality that lately few idolize inventors and many instead idolize employees, indeed, many systematically confuse the two things, or worse yet, many cannot even imagine that there is a dimension where creativity matters, and they are convinced that the best one can aim for is only getting as close as possible to a standard already coded by others (the classic “play as it should” that DT-fans so like).

Once upon a time, a disc was recommended for use as a coaster. Today, instead, I tell you to listen to it well, this album (obviously burned), and keep it on the shelf as a warning: to never forget how stupid behavioral phenomena can negatively influence the judgment of a work, confusing (if not completely overturning) the concepts of "normal" and "special," "obvious" and "brilliant," "beautiful" and "tacky."