Dislocation

For a couple of years, I’ve been thinking about writing something about this monument to Italic pop... You see, in '78 I was fifteen, and the comparison with other fifteen-year-olds today and back then only holds from a school and endocrinological standpoint; the rest is really different due to era, environment, politics...

Musically, I was coming from teachings/milestones of the '60s/'70s and was simultaneously immersed in punk and new wave up to my nose... Then someone lent me the thirty-three of Boomerang, which I wouldn’t have touched even with fishing worms. I saw them on TV, by chance, and I saw Canzian playing his part with the sans-tasti and compressor, with a Pastorizzato debt. I listened to the record and, with each subsequent listen, it became present, in the background, lingering there between Ultravox and Area, making me the butt of jokes from friends and bandmates; even my girlfriend didn’t understand why I had it.

Then my brother started with the bass, and within a few years, he went from rock to jazz, the only connecting threads between the music I listened to and his being Weather Report, the Beatles, and Boomerang... We found ourselves listening to it together, him taking apart the bass while I held the sticks in my hands practicing... That’s life, what can you do... Every now and then, I’d come across Boomerang, you know, like when I heard a metal guitarist, talking to his singer, in a rehearsal in the 2000s, saying he was looking for a sound like "Pronto, Buongiorno è la sveglia," but he needed a Stratocaster... And the singer: "Yeah, and Dodi Battaglia!"

Gems? La Città degli Altri, Air India, Classe 58...
Good, double-check if you can, the text and punctuation, but those are details.
See you soon!

The aristocracy of Electro pop in an Italian sauce, unique in the mainstream of the time, facing off against their Milanese peers Bluvertigo, with less arty pretension and more dance inclination. Samuel on vocals is, in my humble opinion, totally insufficient to withstand the hallucinatory attacks of Boosta's keyboards, Max's guitars, and that devastating rhythm section with Ninja and Pierfunk, then with Vicio... But it's the usual problem of many Italian ensembles, instrumentalists crowned like mad and the vocalist, in short... Great fan review. Awesome album!

Dear Silvietto, I'm sending you a sincere fraternal hug of understanding.
In reality, as the father of a newly graduated daughter, I have never had any issues regarding her youthful listening habits, perhaps because she was raised on the passive listening of what her parental collection offered her, and, in any case, I’ve also been fortunate that, despite her age, the rap music has never really caught her attention at all. However, for the past couple of years, a peer of hers, a brilliant young man who graduated with top honors, has been hired and now works alongside me in the lab where, alas, whenever I turn around, he connects his infernal smartphone to the audio system where Miles Davis, The Beatles, and whatever else the recent fifty years have offered usually plays. Since threats of physical retaliation don’t faze him one bit, I’ve tried to approach his world of autotune, overly crude remakes, suburb brawls, insults to rivals, and desires for supercars, big breasts, and vast wealth acquired with ease through armed means.
The results are laughable, if not nonexistent, as one might expect.
Someone our age, Silvietto, for whatever it’s worth, can clearly distinguish the desolate poverty of the proudly vomited beats from “producers” who would certainly fare a thousand times better in the mining field, and we also understand the syntactic and linguistic limitations that the unfortunate rappers have to endure, due to their cultural and practical constraints.
However, I feel I can share with you the memory of when, at fourteen, I would get caught listening to "Never mind the bollocks" or "Ha ha ha!" by friends or relatives who were only slightly older than me, who would label my listening choices as stylistically poor, technically limited, and stubbornly nihilistic in their lyrics. They regretted having wasted time, since my childhood, subjecting me to The Beatles, Pink Floyd, and various wonders, not even suspecting, poor souls, that I had ingested and assimilated “their” music and was now preparing to feed off the new that was emerging, which, for the record, the “old” music would later assimilate, comprehend, and use to create that very new thing that was, indeed, advancing. If it was called "New Wave," after all, there must have been a reason...
What can I say? Lazza, but also his peers, was served to me by the young colleague and I’ve brushed against his world a bit, then realizing that, much like with lyrical music, I have no interest or inclination towards it, but for the former I don’t engage out of disgust for its shallowness, while for the latter, alas, due to my evident cultural and educational limitations.
None of us are perfect, we all have our flaws.
Oh dear, 5 stars to you and zero for the listening.
I renew my hug.

I arrive fashionably late; I've been meaning to respond to you, as your excursions into Italic music have always intrigued me... let's say this isn't one of Dalla's more interesting albums for me, and it's quite clear that Lucio, during that time, aimed to raise the bar of his involvement in the Italian song scene, suspended between ancient melodicism and noise, artists diving wholeheartedly into prog and cantautorato, which was then in full expansion. A big problem for him, as he struggled to find his place, not seeing himself capable of writing lyrics and still deeply rooted in his primordial passions: traditional jazz and swing, which he clearly understood provided luxurious starting points but wouldn't allow him to make any real strides in the career he was desperately seeking.
Then comes the encounter with Roversi, and Dalla makes a leap forward that very few others could achieve, draping the poet's verses in worthy, non-trivial music, without compromise, unable even to touch the meter imposed by the Bolognese bookseller as an absolute condition... After that, history unfolds... a glorious triple play with the understanding that, upon Roversi's sudden departure, he had matured to the point of creating his own words and music, surrounding himself with skilled and accommodating musicians, crafting a completely distinctive sound...
In this, in Dalla's prehistory, lies the beautiful album you reviewed, where too many things don't add up: starting with Lucio's emphasis in convincingly singing verses that aren't his own, too lyrical, too redundant, not spare and immediate like the ones we would have become accustomed to in the post-Roversi phase, and the arrangements were still too laden with strings and embellishments that would eventually be left behind by the logic he'd arrive at in the future, given that many of the best works of Historical Dalla were made with bass, drums, piano, and voice...
To you, five stars, savasandir; to the album, two, for the effort of the Artist...

The Mountain cures a lot of worries, Loré... Damn, if it's true.

You should tone down your redundant style full of classicisms and outdated syntax a bit... Jokes aside, welcome... We don’t know you and we don’t know anything about your style, here, maybe you just wanted to express yourself briefly... Get back to us!

So she gave you the potato...
Did you fry it or just boil it?

Thank you, really!

Here, I know I have the memory of a paramecium, just as I know I don’t know who this person is, aware that I can still sleep at night, drunk on such ignorance.
So I wander, eager for knowledge, on the YouTube shores and bam there she is, the fearless Ogliastrina...
I’m half-convinced that the brave @[ZiOn] might have exaggerated a bit, that, come on, writing something about Eva, who knows what it could ever be...
And, damn the translated patella... He’s right, the disgust and revulsion almost reach their peak, indeed not because I claim to be a non-spectator of the seaside festival, no, I’ve seen a bit and I don’t deny it, but rather because, for heaven's sake, this piece and its performer truly deserve painful and repeated physical penalties for twenty years, at least.
There is justice, brothers, and it has prevented yours from inflicting more.
Rejoice, people.

Sensitive, huh?