Bowman

Group of snobby and pretentious rich kids. Boring songs, unable to write a catchy radio tune on their own, that is, without connections; the singer is a stereotyped 1974 sideburn model and unbearable in his baroque - or rococo? - gesticulations that make you long for Maurizio Vandelli with l'Equipe 84.

Depressing and numbing. When I see the Yorke Jar with those lush, albino eyelashes, I scratch my balls. Sorry.

Not bad to give a jolt to the riffs of the old zeppelins, seasoned with social commentary.

Childish and falsely instructive review: an album that has aged very poorly, which, after the haze of the grass dissipates, reveals all the compositional gaps of the Floyd without Barrett. One of these days is a blatant and never-resolved plagiarism of the old Doctor Who theme, barely sufficient San Tropez, along with Seamus an aging filler track that even the most laid-back Syd could never have produced, especially considering that his noise demos were only released on bootleg. A pillow of winds, and above all the quintessential Floyd song, that is Echoes, save the work at the last moment and represent their undisputed top compositional achievement. But it’s not enough.

Enough with the pickpockets, please. KEEP IT to yourselves until you're 80 years old and beyond.

Thanks to Desade: the robotic proselytism towards certain heavy stereotyped and childish albums must be immediately stopped with the sacred fire of intellect, on the altar of true poetry, and the renunciation of the vulgarity of certain musical-popular manifestations that in Albion and its former colonies have found fertile soil with groups of pure folklore for infants like Iron Maiden.

It's a cultural and let's say geological problem the South's landfill; it's not Garibaldi's fault, nor the Bourbons', or Masaniello's. Perhaps in time, the South of Italy will drift towards Africa due to continental drift. It will become Europe's dumpster, and Naples, Bari, and all of Sicily will finally find themselves with their black cousins they have always aspired to become culturally and physically with their shantytowns since the times of Hannibal or Pyrrhus. They will be happy. Just listen to Battiato, who felt at home in northeastern Africa, finally Arab and not Sicilian. Or Veltroni, who frequently visits Africa, or some of my Pugliese friends who have become rasta and think of mama Africa. And this is said without curses; it’s a natural geological process. Besides, my girlfriend is Neapolitan, and we laugh about it.

Always great and brilliant.

Enthusiastic reviews, but lacking any critical edge, often para-evangelical to the brink of serial proselytism of the most naive fan from an 80s metal bar; the summary: a heavy group that has become increasingly commercial, a bit overrated, seemingly mature in this work, but actually more childish than the less inspired Sabbath, musically ever more baroque if not manneristic, and from whose repeated covers featuring the little skeleton Eddie – SO 80s! – emerges a Disney-like kitsch that’s hard to attribute to either poor Halloween subcultures or memories of Kiss – considering the huge laser-shooting puppet used for kids in their live shows – a puppet that seems more like a real merchandising choice, given the frontman who, while endowed with a Gillanesque voice, is frankly unwatchable and unpresentable.
SCORE: better than the latest Pino Scotto... -who nevertheless preferred Di Anno over the posh golf-course Mr. Dickinson. Sorry I'm not a fan...

WHY DOES A GNOME WHO PROBABLY WOULD LAST A NANOSECOND EVEN IN LESBIAN PORN have a career that resembles a thirty-year mortgage with Americans and Italians? Why? The apotheosis of gerontocracy and gerontophilia. Dancin and fartin in a water close. Madonna is a break-it-down SINGER, she is 1.49 cm tall, a true media gnome. Her fans are either gay, failed stylists, or muliebris souls in the hearts of men. Augh!