Dislocation

Generally, I've never really appreciated reggae; since I've been listening to music, it's never been my thing. I have a bit, but, you know, nothing serious. I even tried, but nothing worked. Your writing, though, has worked like the classic itch in my ear, and I swear I’ll get it, yes indeed. Well done, Dani, well done.

As long as the Planet can boast souls like that of Joh Fahey, in other words, not everything will be lost. We can and must always count on the children, the godchildren, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Robert Johnson, here we go.

I have no words, only curses, the creative kind, the ones that dig back to the ancestors (his...) up to the sixth generation.

A brief and concise review, but that’s perfectly fine. I like Cremonini; he has always seemed to me an honest craftsman of sounds and words. He does exactly what he knows how to do without ever going overboard. He has a solid core of adoring fans, a certain charming demeanor, but again, he has always seemed honest and grounded to me.

Multiform Cecchetto is, or was, truly so, but the multitude of his forms has manifested itself in pulling out of the hat a plethora of characters who, each in their own "discipline," have brought forth such a volume of rot, disguised now as song, now as recitation, now as entertainment, sufficient to definitively taint the already unhealthy "light" artistic environment of the Boot.

In the case of the musical part, where perhaps our man has caused most of the damage, it was a matter of continuously churning out, for years, a swarm of little singing characters, all moderately aesthetically pleasing, mentally empty, and artistically insignificant, so mediocre that they aptly represented, at a younger age and with repertoires up-to-date with the discographic moment, a worthy succession of the aging rot that characterized the landscape of canzonettistico/entertainment of the time, manipulated by various pippibaudi and vittorisalvetti.

In practice, he served us a nice bunch of pretty people, with danceable songs stuffed with synths and drum machines that were all the rage at the time, each artistically lacking but bound by iron-clad contracts to the boss's cause, and each, in a perfectly spot-on marketing choice, with a little but unique characteristic of their own: surely you remember the big breasts of a cross-eyed and tone-deaf Sabrina Salerno, the flowing blonde hair of an insignificant Sandy Marton, the schoolmate vibe of anyone from the 883, or the total vacuum punctuated by a foolish laugh that characterized the early, but even current, performances of the Disarticulated from Cortona, that Jovanotti who perhaps represents the sum of the damages that Cecchetto has inflicted on now two or three generations of Italians.

At the same time, he was accepted into the high ranks of entertainment, allowing him to present ditty after ditty and letting him create his personal Camelot in that Radio DeeJay, which succeeded in the tantalizing task of masking the newest things with the oldest and most retrograde performances existing at the time in the radio field, addressing the light and carefree side of the national-popular youth.

All legal, of course, and all under the banner of tutto cambie perché nulla cambia, in short.

Darkness.

Plop.

I don't know, neither exactly nor in a fumbling way, what the hell you're questioning but, just by instinct, I tend to trust. I pay more attention to your rhetoric and the way you present your arguments, and I observe, with a certain concern, that every now and then you come across in such an urbane and human way that I even manage to understand you. When you do.
"Cominciate con l'eoina..." I liked that, it captures the idea.
Hello, nes.

I understand you and I am close to you.

Your bias towards Rolando and your aversion to Curto shines through in your write-up. The latter, a good bassist and an excellent songwriter of pop songs tinged with bitols, has had the luck-misfortune of crossing paths with a partner more gifted than him, who is only complicit up to a certain point, with an ego so big and little inclination toward compromise, especially after a product as "definitive" as "Seeds of Love," where Curto's sixties soul dangerously began to take over. You just omitted to mention Smith's post-separation product, "Soul on Board," brimming with ideas and impulses, which for me is certainly superior to the first TFF album without his presence... Great review, really.

Really beautiful.
Yeah.