Dislocation

All true, fully understandable. And perhaps Boredom is the key to Everything.
But maybe there's a chance you find yourself on the other side of the mirror and it takes you a while to realize that it’s not paradise.

Somewhere I still have the two LPs, the first one and "Hypnotised," with grooves so worn that I could plant a garden of agaves in them. And then "Teenage Kicks," which I had on 45 with the green cover, "Tearproof," "Girls don't like it," and "My perfect cousin"...
And you, damn it, have opened a Stargate that throws me back to my fifteen, maybe sixteen.

Milestone, of course, an essential work, yes yes, a formative album, okay.... but I almost agree with Iside. Listening to it all at once, like on a CD, turns out to be a bit heavy in the end.
It's an album that I personally listen to a couple of times a year, let's say, also and especially out of respect for a character of Lou Reed's caliber, one of those artists for whom there’s a "before" and an "after"...
If we look at it from a technical standpoint, perhaps the raw becomes coarse and the immediate becomes meager, but it's not for the instrumental technique that such an album is remembered...
PS Mo' Tucker with an African primitivist drumming style? You're generous, my friend, truly generous.
For our Mo', the first term is excessive and the second expression is insistent. Let's not joke around.

It's dead there.

It can be....

Thank you, Zappino.

I have nothing to say about the work, really. In every sense.
However, I want to waste a couple of words on him.
A character of enormous inconsistency, I suspect even humanly, but I have no concrete basis for this; it’s just a suspicion, and I ask for forgiveness in advance in case it turns out to be a flagrant error of hasty judgment.
In any case, a monument to the most despicable populism of recent decades, worse than a Vascorossi or a Ligabue, to put it bluntly...
Lyrics suitable for the average of his listeners, let no one take offense. Musically, we can categorize him in a pop/dance/fake-rap style that is moderately well-produced and well-performed; he employs collaborators with talent, but the product remains as poor as it is.
The messages that Cherubini insists on sending through his lyrics shine with an exasperated populism, a cheap sentimentality, with texts as empty as they are semantically insignificant, stuffed with clichés of feelings. We might call them banal, then, without further hiding behind pitiful synonyms. Now, it goes without saying that no one can expect from him a sensitivity equivalent to that of a De Gregori or a commitment similar to that of a De André, nor the sharpness of a Gaber, but, really, to declare him part of the already noble yet decayed ranks of singer-songwriters (as singers of texts and music composed by themselves...) seems at least exaggerated.
Shall we talk about vocal performances? At least when he used to play the debauched guy with his cap turned backward, he could be dismissed as a failed but clever little rapper, barely able to keep up with the beat of the tracks.
Since he decided to take on singing, it remains inexplicable how the public still accepts such incompetence and shamelessness at the same time.
If, then, tired of yet another wave of revulsion, we wanted to briefly analyze the ability and stage presence that the usual scribblers and from radiodiggeicentocinquesolomusicaita liana attribute to him, well, then the matter quickly descends into the ridiculous: his audience engagement is limited to convulsive movements more akin to seizure-like fits than to dancing, no matter how tribal it might be, and his awkward performance evokes pity for his lack and the recklessness of the intent, which should simply be to dance to the rhythm of the music produced by his followers.
Never was sweat worse evidenced by an effort that is both useless and non-functional.

Bossa Nova, not understood in the most insidiously pop sense of the term, which has transformed it into elevator music (like in the famous scene from Blues Brothers in the skyscraper...), rightfully belongs among the music of the soul and elevates itself several leagues above merely heart-driven melodies.... and Juaujjiiuubbertuu is one of its prophets and perfectionists, as well as a shy spreader of the Word to the unaware masses about the existence of such an absolute form of beauty tout-court.

To his credit, it's worth remembering the brilliant idea of suggesting his wife Astrud as the singer, she who confessed she couldn’t even sing in the shower... Thus, Humanity has been able to enjoy cold and detached interpretations of songs that are instead sorrowful and full of warmth, now become intergalactic classics, known even by the stones on the cold beaches of Iceland.

As for your writing, what can I say? Nothing, I risk boring you. So I’ll move on to the stars.

I have always carefully dosed Mitchell's works; I loved her rich and desperate lyrics but I never went overboard with her because of the very timbre of her voice that made her famous—beyond a certain limit I couldn't take her. Her jazz turn, the collaborations with giants like Pastorius, Brecker, and Metheny, the album on Mingus, enormous... Here I truly devoured her, for years, I really felt her voice had found a different dimension, it could express itself better and without embellishments... aged she is aged, her voice sounds like her cousin's, so much has it changed, but time passes for everyone, her included... but this album, it's worth saying, is truly beautiful; I know it’s often said that cover albums (in rock) and standards albums (in jazz) serve to fill moments of emptiness, but, my dear gentlemen, this is really a great album. Well done PPF, you don’t need me to tell you to double-check everything before hitting Send.

Montale, Montale... Montale can help when life tosses you between the waves or against the metal walls of a cage... A cage, life itself, devoid of meaning, not even that of being a prison or a limitation, a cage from which to listen to the ebb of the sea or the wind moving the hedges... And when it's not a cage, it's a wall, which you can attempt to climb over only to find that at the top they've cemented pieces of broken glass, proceeding at your own risk, if you want, and if you hurt yourself, you’ll hurt a lot, enough to skin yourself... With the risk of finding, beyond the wall, the same garden, perhaps more beautiful, perhaps uglier, better or worse frequented, but the same.
It's better not to seek certainties, assurances in Poetry; it’s better to see it for what it is, the expression of self-awareness and the desperate futility of everything, but also the hope of being able to cultivate Beauty, perhaps Justice. Love will come, seasoned with despair, as always.
Montale, from the height of his spirit, saw paradigms of existence where others cultivated only the harshness of living and cruel disenchantment. That's enough.
Beautiful page, Cosmic, truly beautiful.