Kyrielison

I, on the other hand, am happy that there are films like this... because, if nothing else, they allowed me to read - after centuries of barbaric obscurantism - a sentence like "Poor Italy, I really wonder where we will end up...", which now my aunt doesn’t even say anymore, the one who makes doilies and never misses a Pippo Baudo show.

Beautiful. Really, everything is very beautiful. Curiosity: Arvo Pärt is the most performed living composer.

A review that oozes passion, knowledge, technique. I’d just like to make one highly debatable remark (from a convinced Pollinian), regarding the part where you talk about an interpretation that is "uncontrollably anxious, not communicative, and not musically convincing." Well… for me, in this definition of yours, there’s all MY Brahms. The one that wraps itself in every symphony and ultimately emerges as a monument to uncertainty. Despite the Beethoven that weighs down on him. And perhaps that’s why I am a Pollinian… Thank you. Kyrielison.

So… Let's start by saying that Battiato was supposed to be called Fausto. His mother, a woman of humble peasant origins – who was mistakenly nominated as the Regional Inspector of the Rock Salt Mines of Racalbuto due to a typing error in the telegram – intended to honor a fourth cousin (Fausto, indeed), a petty and mean man who had, however, taught her everything she knew about tubers. His father, on the other hand – a man imbued with strong libertarian and progressive ideals – wanted to name him after a street: Palmiro Togliatti, to be precise. In the familial toponymic dispute that ensued, the mother prevailed with her sweet yet authoritative character, although some musicologists attribute considerable weight to the woman's threat against her husband to "disable his reproductive organs" during the night. What is certain is that the father's abdication cleared the way for the mother, who burst into uncontrollable displays of joy, during which she sprained an ankle, won a coffee maker by correctly answering the "Quesito con la Susy" from Settimana Enigmistica, and simultaneously lost the use of her Bartolini glands and a right of way she was abusing on a piece of land from Ragusate. This chain of events – coupled with a bothersome "eye of the partridge" – plunged the father into an indescribable state of despondency, during which he confessed to some trusted friends that he was contemplating suicide by ingesting a bottle of Intimo di Karinzia (which, until then, he had thought was merely Heider's personal secretary). Though distracted from this reckless intention by family affections, the man descended into a vortex of vice and debauchery, evidenced by his passion for certain French singer-songwriters – whose influence on his son's future compositions will be evident – and some card games like Burraco – a pastime that can be enjoyed even with vital functions reduced to those of a gerbera – and Briscola Sfigurata (a game very popular at the time, played with a deck of Neapolitan cards and a machete). It was only on her deathbed that the mother promised the father she would not name their son "Fausto," but rather Franco, in exchange for two discount vouchers from Despar for the purchase of an umbrella and a sewing machine. This sheds at least some new light on the otherwise incomprehensible title of one of her son's albums.

So… Let's start by saying that Battiato was supposed to be called Fausto. His mother, a woman of humble peasant origins – who was mistakenly nominated as the Regional Inspector of the Rock Salt Mines of Racalbuto due to a typing error in the telegram – intended to honor a fourth cousin (Fausto, indeed), a petty and mean man who had, however, taught her everything she knew about tubers. His father, on the other hand – a man imbued with strong libertarian and progressive ideals – wanted to name him after a street: Palmiro Togliatti, to be precise. In the familial toponymic dispute that ensued, the mother prevailed with her sweet yet authoritative character, although some musicologists attribute considerable weight to the woman's threat against her husband to "disable his reproductive organs" during the night. What is certain is that the father's abdication cleared the way for the mother, who burst into uncontrollable displays of joy, during which she sprained an ankle, won a coffee maker by correctly answering the "Quesito con la Susy" from Settimana Enigmistica, and simultaneously lost the use of her Bartolini glands and a right of way she was abusing on a piece of land from Ragusate. This chain of events – coupled with a bothersome "eye of the partridge" – plunged the father into an indescribable state of despondency, during which he confessed to some trusted friends that he was contemplating suicide by ingesting a bottle of Intimo di Karinzia (which, until then, he had thought was merely Heider's personal secretary). Though distracted from this reckless intention by family affections, the man descended into a vortex of vice and debauchery, evidenced by his passion for certain French singer-songwriters – whose influence on his son's future compositions will be evident – and some card games like Burraco – a pastime that can be enjoyed even with vital functions reduced to those of a gerbera – and Briscola Sfigurata (a game very popular at the time, played with a deck of Neapolitan cards and a machete). It was only on her deathbed that the mother promised the father she would not name their son "Fausto," but rather Franco, in exchange for two discount vouchers from Despar for the purchase of an umbrella and a sewing machine. This sheds at least some new light on the otherwise incomprehensible title of one of her son's albums.

Look, Odradek... I’ll start by saying that I won’t vote, considering that – to my shame – I know neither the author nor, tampoco, the reviewed work. To be honest, I once heard this Sideny Bull mentioned... But the fact that what I was browsing through was a dental waiting room magazine leads me to believe it was either a tiny actress or an oral antiseptic, rather than a psychedelic songwriter with folk-blues influences. Or maybe it was just a lonely heart from Natàlia Aspési’s column or Natalìa Aspesi or Natalìa Aspési or Natàlia Aspesi (if you ask 4 people, each will put the accent differently). To further worsen my situation, I confess that, glancing at your 79 reviews, I found: 1) Giovanni Sollima (thank you), 2) the Brodsky Quartet, 3) that my musical knowledge pairs beautifully with Gianni Boncompagni’s sexual prowess, as I know the grand total of 6-7 reviews from the authors you wrote about. Lastly – taking improper advantage of this forum – I wanted to thank you for the kind words you had for me, in the comments of another review that I now can’t recall. I also wrote to you privately, using the appropriate function on Debaser. But from your lack of response, I deduced that you hadn’t read it (or at least, definitely not written... And certainly not sent!). Best regards. K.

Look, Odradek... I’ll start by saying that I won’t vote, considering that – to my shame – I know neither the author nor, tampoco, the reviewed work. To be honest, I once heard this Sideny Bull mentioned... But the fact that what I was browsing through was a dental waiting room magazine leads me to believe it was either a tiny actress or an oral antiseptic, rather than a psychedelic songwriter with folk-blues influences. Or maybe it was just a lonely heart from Natàlia Aspési’s column or Natalìa Aspesi or Natalìa Aspési or Natàlia Aspesi (if you ask 4 people, each will put the accent differently). To further worsen my situation, I confess that, glancing at your 79 reviews, I found: 1) Giovanni Sollima (thank you), 2) the Brodsky Quartet, 3) that my musical knowledge pairs beautifully with Gianni Boncompagni’s sexual prowess, as I know the grand total of 6-7 reviews from the authors you wrote about. Lastly – taking improper advantage of this forum – I wanted to thank you for the kind words you had for me, in the comments of another review that I now can’t recall. I also wrote to you privately, using the appropriate function on Debaser. But from your lack of response, I deduced that you hadn’t read it (or at least, definitely not written... And certainly not sent!). Best regards. K.

Wow...

You’re right, JakeChambers. I apologize. It’s just that I was hoping my “useless rant” would be helpful to Bonny91. Because, you know, at 16, it’s not guaranteed that one realizes the talent they have at their fingertips... K.