Dislocation

Indeed, dear Lulù, it is pointless to deny that the discography of the Prince, let’s say until the '80s, was truly something special and unique in the Italian landscape, granted the obvious derivation from the Dylanian lexicon, both in the way of presenting the lyrics and in assembling simple chords and heart-wrenching hymns to Diversity in Equality and Equality among Differences.
The hermeticism of the first two or three albums then made way for sweet lyrics that were easier to understand, until it eventually slipped into a trend of certainly uncommon refinement but dressed in music that veered toward certain rock expressions that did not suit him well (see the cutting lyrics of "L'Agnello di Dio" and its music totally out of tune with the lyrics...) or towards romantic ballads with light tones intentionally, affectively "pop"...
However, the Prince is the Prince, beyond his reclusive demeanor, now softened by age, and some of his highly debatable choices, such as the reunion with Venditti where each performs the other's songs, a sort of amusement park of singer-songwriters, where Antonello certainly pales compared to the undeniable stylistic superiority of the old friend...
Add to this that I particularly enjoy reviews that mention sauce for tasting pasta...

I steer clear of throwing myself wholeheartedly into a debate like the one mentioned above, regarding the antithesis between rock and disco, as much simplistic as worthy of discussions of an approximate length of two hundred/two hundred fifty hours of confrontation, animated even by knives and gunfire, light, though, not beyond the short nine caliber, I’d say.
That said, I observe, with a faint smile that only partially alters my indifferent facial expression, that you must be a bit older than me, for sure, since in '77 I was chasing after the greatest, the ideas, the stammering wonders and the splendid miseries of a movement that was both flourishing and perishing, as only a politically staunch fourteen-year-old, in the midst of a hormonal storm and with a Ludwig drum set in my bedroom could.
I greatly appreciate, and much has been discussed in these pages, the reviews of a work that position it, even if it’s the declared object of the page, almost on the margins, using it as the soundtrack to a slice of life to tell to those who want to read it, to place in space and time for the use, consumption, and critique of the unwary reader who travels between its lines better, more swiftly and comfortably, certainly, than in that beaten-up 500 you mentioned.
Personally, I and many like me resolved the issue in perhaps a more uncritical but certainly less painful manner than many others of our generation, those who mocked the disco scene, yes, but also those who organized the hunt for punks because they were undoubtedly fascist (???), or even those who looked on in disgust at their peers discussing musical technique and solos, unable, themselves, to appreciate something called music if devoid of a four-on-the-floor beat and a pumping bass that induced the listener to dance, thus, for its own sake and without any commitment beyond the physical. There were some of us, who had been chewing on music since childhood, fed on Beatles and King Crimson, Traffic and Frank Zappa, who embraced the New Wave after digesting punk, who now adored the Ultravox and the Stranglers, and now, through a sort of osmotic-musical process, enjoyed the bands emerging from punk creating new things, with a singer still tethered to that London rage but a drummer keeping time in four-quarter beats so the bassist could weave above it, essential and incisive, while the guitarist held the tempo like a player from Isaac Hayes' band and the keyboardist, oh yes, harmonized simple yet sublime notes as the Germans from Düsseldorf had taught.
So, to say, what a doorway to the Stargate your review has been.

I don't know you at all and, in fact, I'll take this opportunity to welcome you to this poorly frequented den. It's your business from now on... Praise be to whoever brings up jazz, any jazz, and writes about it on DeB, so good job, well done, seven plus.

Then, maybe, if you could include two or three notes on what this record was upon its release, what came after it, what indescribable beauties it was a worthy prelude to... nothing, just a string of personal judgments that seem to me, I must say, to be understood and/or known only by you, almost as if trying to impress the onlookers by force... Now, my friend, given that we adore Ornette Coleman on our altars and see him seated at the right hand of the Father, well, for a record like this, I was expecting something a bit more explanatory, almost at a school level, if you understand me. All this, I would have somewhat expected, or, in the absence of that, even your personal judgment, expressed with a lexicon that is perhaps straightforwardly open, without necessarily resorting to sterile neologisms or a bit of self-indulgent profanity.

So, there you go, I've said my piece. If you allow me, I look forward to our next encounter.

Sometimes brevity helps. Sometimes. Even mental brevity.

Narrative Fast Food. You said it, brother.

For the record: Maurizio Dolieri changes the strings for Cesareo and cleans his house.

By attributing to Limes the explanation of the ThousandThousand varieties of gray, never encroaching into white or black, which are already too many to describe them, you have, in my humble opinion, hit the mission of that foliage so precious in the suffocating landscape of Italian publishing and beyond.
Ah, then... I don't know about you, but here the Historical Center is the ideal place for certain ammmmmmmors there...

Can one appreciate the 90s punk having witnessed the birth of the 70s one?
Can one not think too much and just have fun, let loose, realize that it is just American entertainment, simple and somewhat shallow, whose creators rarely hit the mark with a third album?
Yet the fun was guaranteed, with them and with other representatives of the same wave.
The problem, perhaps, is that one grows old.

Well thought out and better presented.
It wasn't easy to talk about an album like this without falling into extravagant praise or well-known compliments from fans.
It was a dirty job, but @[Conteverde] did it.

Well, our dear brother @[Ilovemusic] officially joins the already numerous ranks on DeB of those who, in fact, have few ideas but, just read it, are quite confused. Arrogance, self-importance, childishness, and disarming shallowness are not lacking in him; he is convinced that pounding on the keys of a piano gives him the authority of a supreme judge.