marpado

Marc.o Masi.ni (forbidden to write it fully) unfortunately truly carries bad luck, the proof? In recent years, among the kids, Japanese anime cartoons with cards, magic, and other nonsense are all the rage. Now, the only cartoon that flopped, which they pulled from programming in Italy after just a few episodes, is the one where this unfortunate singer performed the theme song... funny coincidence. Ah, but how many copies did this album sell, three?

After witnessing the miracles that Photoshop can perform (just look for the two versions, natural and retouched, of Keira Knightley on the King Arthur poster, for example, and you'll get the idea), I no longer believe in photos, covers, and everything else featuring hot girls. Either I see them in person or I won't judge; rather, I think the worst.

Shit music for shit people like the anonymous FF. 99% of Italian rappers and hip-hop artists only provoke laughter, but those who take themselves seriously like this idiot should really burn in public square.

There are never enough of these mulatto mice. Long live exotic pussy.

Ah ah aha aha aha aha. If the fans of 99 posse can at least be split into two categories (punkabbestia flea-ridden and daddy's boys pseudo-rebels), those of this idiot belong to only one: the spoiled and rude brats of today, filled to the brim with MTV.

Shit. Shitty music by definition. The paradigm of shit. Four demagogic bullshit good for drugged-out idiots who believe they have the solution to the world's problems in their pockets. And they are hypocrites like few, first acting like friends of the poor and then signing with Bmg. By the way, that useless, ignorant, stinking bastard Zulù is now playing the poor guy who even accepts a sandwich at concerts. And worse than them are their stupid fans, who besides letting their ears be filled with their nonsense are just spoiled rich kids pretending to be socially and politically engaged, when instead they go venting with songs against the cops who don't let them do whatever the hell they want with drugs and vandalism, and because they have a grudge against their mean old man who won't buy them the 500 euro phone because they already have three. Shitty music for shitty people.

This album and the subsequent one are emblematic of what REM has become in recent years: easy little songs for the MTV kids. Easy, and incredibly boring to boot. Bland to the point of becoming almost unlistenable. And let’s not be fooled by the proclamations of these now ex-music groups (they can now definitely be called industries) like this or U2 when they announce new albums, new sounds, etc.: it will always be the same old song, the usual schematic hit that’s a total bore in the usual pointless album...

Of course, my pre-Christmas dream would be a nice review of this FidoGuido, an idol among the human scum of the social centers here in southern Italy, an emerging figure in the underground reggae-hip hop-punkabbestia scene, a sort of 99 Posse in the Taranto dialect, all about shitty cops and demagogy for junkies. If I were to write it, it would just be insults, especially since I don't even like the genre, not even when played by the father figures, let alone by this idiot.

Trimalchione, if I may suggest, lately that new Mika really gets on my nerves, but there's already an exhaustive review of it. I don't know, anyway, you just need to pick from the deck of these new empty teen-idols like the head of Flavia Vento.

Granted that the review is serious and not a joke, I will stick to copy-pasting a previous comment of mine about this grandiose fool.
Despicable, pathetic buffoon, always engaged in desperately trying to be charming in every appearance, in every photo. It has always been as evident as the sun how forced certain behaviors were... he struggled to be witty, captivating, histrionic, just as those damned people who put in a good word for him (at his father's behest) had imposed on him, but what came of it was just a poor subject who looked like an idiot. Then came the serious, committed turning point, even with a monstrous piece of crap of a song, an irritating wail in the form of lyrics probably written by some dimwit. Finally, having realized that music was not really his thing, and that not even the recommendation of the Almighty would have turned him into a somewhat mediocre record seller (singer is too much), here he is trying his last card, the career of an interviewing journalist. Then the very last one, the advisor of the whore Ventura. Now, since this worthless man has already had practically everything from life without deserving a thousandth of it (money, fame, and one of the biggest beauties in the history of the universe) and since he still demands and still tries, instead of settling for an honest job in a factory or in the fields, certainly more suited to his artistic abilities, we hope the next step in his evolution is suicide, or at least exile.