Dislocation

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.

A Master rarely remembered by the usual quaqquaraqquaquà who only talk about Morricone and Goblin, eh... Everything well written and excellently presented. Well done, Oppelessio.

Perhaps it should be, the record, listened to again in the elevator, an increasingly designated place for depositing one’s flatulent remains. There, the true connoisseur of music and farts makes the most of the reduced echo effect of the elevator cabin and the oppressive stench of their own gas ejection, which together should contribute to a unique synesthetic experience that is both auditory and respiratory. But beware: the positive result is limited to one’s own flatulence, generally appreciated by the one who has released it. Others' emissions are always unwelcome, even when inhaled simultaneously with the enjoyment of pleasant music.

Having been a thirteen/fourteen-year-old in the midst of the first punk wave, that Ramones/Pistols etc. etc. etc., I wasn’t particularly affected by the emergence of punk-pop bands, as they were called back then, in the mid-90s. Dookie, which I bought, seemed to me like a barely decent product, a bit too carefree to be labeled punk but, in short, acceptable.
I naturally changed my mind upon listening to American Idiot, a milestone album that placed them in an artistic situation from which they, however, either did not know how or did not want to progress further.
I got Saviors, and at least it doesn't take away from the level reached by the band, although it doesn’t add anything to it...
As an old drummer, I say that the great Tré is one of the rock fishermen, and I envy him two or three passages on which I’ve sprained my wrists.

Never been able to stand ska, not even during the wave period when those guys, the Specials and those clowns, the Bad Manners, came out, or those others, wait, the Selecter... music with very little variety and hardly interesting, for me, I know, maybe it's a limitation of mine...
As for the Italian ska bands, well...

Now I throw everything in.
The senses don’t synesthetize like with Debussy.
The air doesn’t empty out like with Satie.
The eyes don’t fill up like with Stockhausen.
The heart doesn’t explode like with Stravinsky.
The hands don’t get anxious like with Berio.

But open the window, at night, in winter, yes, the one overlooking the port.
Varèse.

But fucking hell, that damn filthy... I had posted (or I thought I had, damn it...) a nice comment about this work from my childhood heroes, and after a month, I say to myself, "Let's see what Lulù replied, let's check it out..."
And I realize I’ve been such a fool, I wrote it and who knows what the hell I did with it... And to think I was having a knowledgeable discussion about Mr. Leigh & Respectable Co., about how important they were for shaping my musical sensitivity, etc., etc., etc....
Now I'm way too pissed off, so I’m retreating to sip on an aged Candolini, toasting to Dennis and Master Lulù, who are always impeccably on point.
But damn that damn damn...
PS... There's no Dislocation on this album, but oh well...

What a collection of masterpieces.
Well done, MC!

Synthetic image, aesthetic form, poetic art in the atomic age.
Sublime.
Well done, Martellino!