Dislocation

It's always a pleasure to read you, even when the music you talk about doesn't interest me much. Not that I don't like it, but I don't go out looking for it.
Well done as always, Uncle Lulù.

After such an evolved, yet also regressive, examination, such a learned, yet also unaware, discussion, after such a remarkable, yet also negligible, series of responses, after such a clear, yet also obscure, testimony to the transience of human things, after, finally, the arrival of yet another dud coach at Genoa, but also after the departure from the same team of a so-so selector, in short, after all this, but also much more, I am immediately going to declare eternal love to the brave @[Dr.Adder] and to the offspring that may, eventually, derive from him.
Ugh, I said.

ENORMOUS !!!

We're talking about Vasco, damn it... this and the following five albums could have given us an artist who was still, in his own way, introspective, with a barren and essential dialectic, and an approach that was anything but intellectual. But after the first six albums, it became clear—he noticed it first—that the story couldn't go on, that the provincial singer, all alcohol and substances, with immature and irretrievable interpersonal relationships, tended to repeat himself and, worse, his themes became repetitive and uninteresting. Gradually, Vasco began to focus his aim on an audience with a rather low IQ and expectations, a bunch of tattooed people in flip-flops (in summer, in winter, camper boots) with simple tastes (to say the least), convinced that he is the rock in Italy... In my humble opinion, it's disturbing that his audience overlaps with that of other carriers of messages of basic significance, if not even close to absolute zero, like Jovanotti...
Moreover, it is undeniable that a solid sound based on distortion and booming drums, like "Siamo solo noi," at the time, in what pretended to be the musical mainstream, was indeed rare to find in Italy.
Useless, if not pitiful, to list the characteristics of his being and the way he presents himself to the public, which Rossi chose to highlight in order to maintain that audience I just mentioned... the choice to never sing, to chatter instead of singing, to emit gasps and vocalizations like "Eeeeh..." or "Aaaaahhhahhh" or even "Oooohhooohhhh," tiredly repeating "E già......" seems to have been a winning formula for his audience—nothing to say, it paid off in terms of marketing.
There remains the pity and shame that he evokes in those who watch him and observe his movements, which now resemble more those of a hemiplegic than anything else, with all due respect for hemiplegics.
Don’t mind the usual Sergino, who, as we know, would never admit that an Italian album is a good album, unless it’s from a belated prog group with suicidal themes; he would never listen to it, and worse, he would never admit the obvious. He’s now aging and tired; let’s take him down, come on.
Bravo Diddiccù for reminding us of semi-lost albums that are not without many qualities, if nothing else, freshness and immediacy.

A high-level character, a steadfast Hendrixian, a guitarist not as fast and loud as Di Palo or Bambi Fossati but essential and of great class, never a sound, not even feedback, out of place. As a songwriter, he was somewhat snubbed in favor of his being primarily a lead guitarist; he strung together beautiful and precious productions and arrangements, Faust'O above all... I consider myself lucky to own the 45 rpm you described, the one whose cover is in the photo. I remember with pleasure "Che cosa sei," already very mature, but also "Gente di Dublino" and "America goodbye," really well done and ahead of its time compared to what was heard in Italian pop back then. And I find your final statement to be just. He deserved more, more recognition as a singer/songwriter (I've never heard anyone include him among the songwriters; it's hard to find Graziani on that list, let alone him...).

Disco-atmosphere instantly evokes escapism, lightness, vacations, and uncazzodafare.
Good job, Cosmic, brief and succinct as it should be and as I will never be, with my obsession for documenting and specifying, what a drag.

At this stage, old Uncle Reginaldo was nearing the edge of the artistic abyss.
But soon he would take a significant step forward.

@[musicalrust] You will soon be satisfied.

I already had the chance last month to review this same product, and I won't dwell on it too much, I swear. I just want to provide context for the excellent @[DDQ], absolutely. I see this film-concert after having watched all, and I mean all, the old audiovisual material of the DM, starting from Live in Hamburg '85 to "101," from the "Violation Tour," and everything that followed.

In my modest review, I stated what I now reiterate: first and foremost, this product has an aura of sadness all its own, in the sense that the concert itself is a tired repetition of the standards of the last twenty years of concert experiences by the three from Basildon, who have nevertheless raised the bar of excellence in their performances multiple times, let's say from the mid-'80s to about a decade ago. The formal perfection of everything—music, audiovisuals, setlist choices—suffers from a blatantly suspicious repetitiveness, only partially alleviated by the inclusion of two or three old songs that our guys hadn't performed live in eons.

Secondly, it’s the image of the Three that suffers in this unflinching visual report by the brilliant Corbijn; the DM, like all of us, are aging, and their repertoire poorly suits performers who are struggling with arthritic attacks or muscular tone loss: Gahan's pirouettes keep the audience on edge, but only because everyone is praying he doesn't lose his balance; Dave does it once per concert and doesn't try again.

Particularly painful is Dave’s vocal performance, which growls where he once screamed and barks where he used to imbue the sublime lines of Martin Gore with blues tones. We won’t speak of Fletch; he has today the same prerogatives within the band that he has always had, amounting very close to cosmic zero. He hits three keys and, at the moments of the final bows, neither bends his back nor his knees. That's enough. Let us remember them as they were; the rule of the Stones doesn't apply to everyone.

Sometimes it doesn’t even apply to the Stones themselves. As for my discomfort in writing all this, I refer you, if you’re inclined, to this little link:

Spirits In The Forest - Depeche Mode - recensione

Of Paolo Conte, an artist for whom I have boundless admiration for a lifetime, I have always admired his ability to synthesize complex, composite, and fragmented situations into just a few, sometimes terse, words... I always remember with extreme, yet subtle pleasure, the definition he gave of Duke Ellington ("Here’s Duke Ellington, a great boxer, all fans and silences...") and I challenge any Bertoncelli or even, I exaggerate, an Arrigo Polillo, to come up with a description of the Duke that is more fitting, concise, and definitive than this one.
I find your daring parallel between your voluptuous beautician and the Art of Fenoglio and Conte lovely...
I understand less your intention to introduce into the review's mechanics a phrase from the guitarist son of Abruzzo; I truly don’t see the connection between the two situations, it seems a bit forced to me.
Nor do I think that the detachment, almost immediately, from what seemed to be the subject (a stunning composition of the Lawyer in the Middle Ages) contributes to the overall flow of your writing, cluttering the review with quotations from his other songs that, in the long run, and this is merely my opinion, distract the reader's attention somewhat. A review that, I should mention, you have specifically titled with the name of the aforementioned sublime composition. Although I then realize that the title more accurately refers to a clip present on the Tube...
PS Conte is right, a true drummer is always in the shadows and watches all the bad knuckles—bandmates and audiences...
Your description of a landscape and a place that only those who know it can archive among the places of the soul is beautiful and sincere, as it is full of Everything and Nothing, of exaggeration and perfect synthesis, of the most candid and genuine popular spirit and the highest and most disdainful nobility that exists... It’s clear that you truly loved the places, beyond the physical and sentimental attraction to Elvira...
@[lector] is right, and for once he deserves it... Start writing again, rethink, polish, and edit; it’s a pleasure to read you.

The selective metatarsal unloading is carried out, in the broader context of creating a custom orthotic support, in order to redistribute body weight that, during the phases of walking, becomes pathologically concentrated on the metatarsals and, more specifically, on their distal epiphyses, commonly referred to as "heads," thereby creating a walking pattern that is often painful, prompting the technician to customize, in the orthotic, a specific and selective unloading for the identified epiphysis. For a solution that is slightly more invasive but easier to implement, sometimes a total metatarsal unloading, commonly known as "bar," is preferred, which serves its therapeutic purpose on all distal epiphyses of all metatarsals.