Dislocation

Well, Martelletto, almost everything is shareable... what stuck with me entirely is "I hate Liguria...", well, there are worse things to say, and it's right next to us too...
Now I’m calling @[Farnaby], look...
#weknowwhereyoulive

Tomorrow everything, I would say...
An intriguing review but lacking, perhaps deliberately, any inventory of the content of the phonographic record.
But Tomorrow, everything, I would say.

So the claa in dii purr venyg ach de sluy.

GW had a talent and an expressive power that brooks no discussion; the beauty lies in explaining it to the bystanders, to the apathetic, to the ignorants who cannot help it, with the words you used.
Just to say.

It was released just a few days before "Sono solo canzonette," and in those few days, Bennato took great satisfaction in seeing newspaper and radio-TV reporters vehemently opposing the choice to release an album they deemed unnecessary and counterproductive for a singer-songwriter's career, provocative and mocking, disconcerting due to its lack of coherence and deliberate disorganization in juxtaposing one track with another while insisting on nonsense.
Then, just a few days later, he released the much more organized and "straightforward" Sono Solo Canzonette, more immediate, more "typical," and more predictable as well...
The favorite track from this chaotic album is "Restituiscimi i miei sandali," surprising also is "Uffa Uffa" with the Gaznevada, who later gave an interview declaring their aversion to Bennato as a singer-songwriter and musician, them, in those hard and pure punk times.
And well done, Withor, you old rascal.

Listened to, prompted by your review.
But I don't feel like telling you whether I liked it or not.
Is it any of your business?
Trallallà...

I bought the CD as soon as it came out, and I let it mature for a couple of weeks before listening to it. Well, musically it’s the Guccini we know, dry and essential, the one that annoys brave @[Flame], the one that places emphasis on the lyrics because, let’s face it, no, it’s not mandatory to be a poet if you prioritize the lyrical side over the musical aspect, considering that almost all, I mean almost all singer-songwriters (the ones with voice and guitar...) at a certain point in their career felt the need to surround themselves with serious and trustworthy musicians to frame their lyrics... but we are used to disagreeing with @[Flame], it’s a good and right thing to do...

That said, the fact remains that the Vate could have avoided this one... the caliber of the songs is high, the versions are well made and almost philological, it’s his voice that, which was already not of excellent quality decades ago, today sounds completely unacceptable to the ear. The moscia r (rolled r) doesn’t bother me, we all know about that; what deeply disturbs me is the constant and irritating mumbling that, in many passages, prevents the understanding of the words, undoubtedly due to the damage of age, I won’t deny that, but come on, something done this way our man could have avoided.

As already mentioned, the caliber of the songs is great, and there’s nothing more to say about that.

Decerebrated and repressed, with three profiles (all female...) that support each other, using, among other things, deliberately thirteen-year-old language in a frenzy, sparing us nothing, from pseudo-sexist jokes to faux-generational remarks.
If you stopped, dear, rummaging around with that little mini penis that Mother Nature has unwisely given you and started wearing those feminine clothes that you are certainly entitled to, as well as making peace with yourself and, in short, living your own life?
Go ahead with the insults, come on...

That stinky old man @[imasoulman] reports a writer's block, perhaps of the past, which we suspect is due to an intestinal origin; perhaps more simply, he was feeling rather low, who knows... Then you find him reviewing a record like this by an artist like that, everything falls back into place, and we can even pretend not to hear the horrible emissions of bodily gases that he continually lets out; intestinal ailments take a long time to get rid of... Then again, let's face it, we wonder if there are any chamois in the Andes, who knows, and whether the old Piedmontese fool knows any chamois other than that D'Oro, sold at €1.60 per hundred grams at the deli counter in the supermarket, promptly nestled inside a fragrant michetta... Then there’s him, Gillo Scotti Erano, who represents a way of understanding poetry in music, a flow of words in a cosmic stream without, let it be clear, underestimating the musical carpet upon which the lyrics rest, rich in soul and funk accents wrapped in rhythm and blues softness, all hard and pure, all shining with sincerity and commitment. Mother works of rap? Sure, we know, but whatever. Great comeback, boia faus, great comeback.

Ah.