Dislocation

The good thing (good?) is that it doesn't tempt one to listen to this work (opera?), anyway.
Amen, brother.

Nice movie, yes.
Excellent soundtrack, yes.
Beautiful and clear review, of course.
But I won't accept lessons on the generation gap from someone who hasn't had Sardinian fathers.
Right, @[iside]?

Beautiful are the times when @[G] will allow the DeBaserian people to clearly sense olfactory sensations while reading reviews and editorials.
*#iwouldlike to be there*

@[joe strummer] I'm afraid the answer is "Lassecondachettùaddeto"...
Then...
I saw Collini opening for the CCCP concert last summer, along with the great Jukka Reverberi, and it was a wonderful moment, he always the same, sly and sharp, the tracks from ODP old but current, wonderfully dated and stunningly, lucidly new.
Thinking back, even though I really enjoyed the reunion of the Ferretti-Zamboni Band on that occasion, I liked the Collini opening even more.
I'm very curious about what you've described, I'll find out more...
Thank you.

I would say #Zot! ...

Revisited last year, after decades.
No comment on potential para-religious, pseudo-religious, anti-religious grievances and so on... Let’s treat it for what it is, a film, with amazing actors who, simply by watching, demonstrate they do their jobs as professionals, at times even a bit half-heartedly, let’s say, precisely, professionally, overshadowed by the directorial whims of that overrated mediocrity known as Zeffirelli, who surrounded them with over-the-top costumes and sets, at times worthy of a toga party... Powell, the only one truly inspired, never again reaching these heights, already the father of Tommy/Daltrey, convinces when he overacts, hieratic to the edge of tolerability.
A film for irreducible Christians who are unwilling to engage in any dialogue/doubts, never a doubt, a veil, as for the reality of the times, a Christ overshadowed by Caviezel in Gibson's splatter (the only noteworthy aspect there was Satan with the features of Celentano...) and above all by Dafoe, filled with doubts and all too human uncertainties, in the honest and introspective film by Scorsese.
And Ted Neeley?
Christ!

The combination (Wanted? Unwanted? Involved?) between the Pinguini Tattici Nucleari and poop has honestly won me over.
If I had to add something, I would opt for a background of rotting vegetation, of spoiled fruits and vegetables, of the stench of sewage, of murine corpses in an advanced state of decay, you know.
Oh, I like the review, eh? Imaginative and volatile as it should be.
It's these four idiots who get on my nerves, standing and sitting.

In fact, I must have already mentioned it under some listening conditions, after this album our artist primarily dedicated himself to cashing in, and it would even be understandable, at times even justified... the albums following this one, with the partial exception of "Cambio," lived in a state of great stylistic perfection, but the electronic "in-your-face" approach made them unexpectedly and sadly resemble musical clones of the Pet Shop Boys sound (said with the utmost respect for the fundamental work of Tennant/Lowe...) and the lyrics became increasingly annoyingly obvious, banal, almost denying the genius and talent of an author who, in 1975, after the wonderful triple collaboration with Roversi, was convinced he couldn't write lyrics, only to then produce that cornerstone that was "Come è profondo il mare," the first of that incredible quintet that concluded with this very album...
Out of love for the artist, it’s better to refrain from mentioning mediocre works like "Canzoni," "Luna Matana," or "Il contrario di me," all of which contain one or two objectively excellent tracks, up to his standards, and a plethora of fillers that are truly frightening...
And what about that stylistic horror, surrounded by a stupidly and falsely magical aura, that was "Caruso"? Many consider it his peak...
But it's impossible not to feel affection and gratitude towards Dalla for those eight-albums-eight that raised the bar of Italian lyrical-musical productions so high that they created a pre and post Dalla...
A great squanderer of his own talent, how can one not agree with @[lector]?
For once he’s right...

Really nothing to say.
Maximum respect to Jarrett and the imperial trio.
Maximum respect to the garages, unfairly, although understandably, labeled as refuges for only basic rock bands.
Maximum respect to those who review anything (albums, but also books, culinary recipes, porn films, electric basses...) letting themselves indulge in personal memories and passions.
Well done, well done.
Well done.
Did I already say that?

I've followed him (I used to, sigh!) forever, since the remote and heroic days of the Magical Yellow Orchestra, then through his sublime solo career, collaborations always with wonderful people and great artists (Sylvian, Byrne, Dolby, Bowie, Holly Johnson, Zazou, Cesaria... anything else?)...
Then, an eon ago, I saw him in concert, solo, in Genoa, just a grand piano, outdoors, at Nervi Parks, where he conducted a concert of remarkable balance between classical, ethnic Japanese, jazz, and pop of unrivaled class... then, around midnight, with the sea in the background illuminated by fishing lamps, a train passed by not far away, and he, with infinite grace, stopped playing, alternating his gaze between the piano's keyboard and the railway, blending the first notes of the piece's reprise with the noise and clatter of the train, as if he had made a dramatic appointment with the engineer.
The Artist, whole and indivisible.