Dislocation

I join in the tears of the brother up above, only I was a little over sixteen at that time, and, well, I've already written a review on this little gem of an album, alright.
Good job.

Young, yes, but with a nickname that paves your way.

@[iside] is right, the crap that TV makes us navigate is just a prelude to the sludge that the Internet educates you to. The flattening effect that television imposes on everything, and even more so Rai, means that potentially interesting life stories are reduced, in their bleak and sanitized scripts, to postcard (now they say "locations", for heaven's sake...) settings that are always pristine, as fake as a six-euro coin, filled with quotes from "significant" moments, with dialogues that are approximate and disheartening in their poverty.

This is evident from stories like those about FdA or Rino Gaetano, but also from fictions like the recent "La Storia," adapted from Morante's monument, treated with a bothersome carelessness and a cinematic apathy that gives chills. Fabrizio would have said that this movie about him is a silly piece of nonsense, and those who suspect that this is not even close to being the means to approach him and his work are right.

It’s a typical desire of our time to skim an issue broadly, consulting an index, without the arduous commitment of getting to know, say, a singer-songwriter by listening to their albums, or a poet by reading their books. Just think of how boring that expectation is.

Well, you've kept the disclaimer.
I've given up a long time ago, personally, and if I scribble a review or even an editorial, I make sure that these serve as a backdrop to the artistic "product" I'm talking about, and sometimes, I know, the opposite happens.
I'm often bored by those writings, even if competently written and with enthusiasm, where the author gushes praise for the Artist or gets lost in finely nuanced technical discussions.
So let's go with our issues if they help engage the bystanders; I don't know if it's about the reviewed Art or, indeed, about our issues.

In "Why I Write," it spoke out against all totalitarianism and proclaimed itself social democratic, but I was sixteen and thinking of Saragat and Romita, what do you want.

The boy from the countryside uber alles...
Above all, the discovery of BorgoTreCase, a fraction of BorgoDieciCase, the wait for the train that is always nice to watch, the entrance by tractor to Milan, "Turn on the television"...

May I, modestly and humbly, devoutly request to be the hammerer of your noble skull?
Furthermore, it could be a way to express the disdain I have for myself which, alas, over the years, amidst moves, transfers, basements, garages, and loans to friends who are reluctant to return them, has lost flowers like this, alas.
I could ease my pain for my recklessness by inflicting upon your skull wounds, alas, potentially lethal but illustrative to those around of the little foresight of being Human.
What do you say?

And tralalà it shall be.

Since the dawn of time, the fog has been a guitarist, rarely a bassist, but never has one heard of a fog being a pianist.

Confidential communication to non-fans of the Notable Roman Singer
Here arises a whole congeries of problems that are undoubtedly all mine, I candidly admit.
I can endure for a couple of minutes, not more, shows where the Artist is surrounded by a dance troupe, which I deem an unnecessary embellishment, functional at most to complement a well-defined work rather than a recital of songs, known or not. In this reality, a hundred (!!!) dancers, or even just four, not only distract attention from the technical and artistic caliber of the pieces but, very often, generate a sort of confusion on stage—a horde of Furies and youthful dancers, albeit very talented, who inevitably attract the attention of the onlookers, who, confused by such abundance, end up inevitably applauding, sometimes without even knowing who or what, or why.
A well-founded doubt arises that the Artist's boundless ego sees the Monumental Dance Troupe, or even a possible MegaOrchestra of no less than a hundred members, as a useful SuperToy to accompany his primary creations, for goodness' sake, the songs.
I confess, too, that I do not admire, except for his undeniable psychophysical endurance, our Artist, whose repertoire does not shine, for me, mind you, with particular splendor, even though I admit I envy him the composition of a masterwork like "Gagarin," eons and eons ago.
His garrulous singing also causes various psychological abrasions (and even a couple of pressure sores in para-perineal areas and nearby regions).
However, what was expressed by the valiant @[gmasi1971] pleased me for the barely concealed enthusiasm for the artist, which I truly believe is close to pure sincerity.
A hug.