Dislocation

What the hell, the stars...

I read with unintentional delay, damn it, and I get emotional; it must be my age, the creeping forgetfulness, or it could be that everything is getting on my nerves, or that, as a convinced layman and atheist, Christmas with lights on balconies and churches brightly lit fills me with sadness, nonledicosignoramia...
I had already caught a glimpse of it, between the lines of other writings, your soul, alone but not lonely, dusty but not dusty. And forget about precious metals, and stop trying to figure out what it's made of. Whoever finds it must earn it, but first they must earn that little bit of soul you have stuck between your teeth and stomach.

Benigni's presence made me think about skipping the viewing of this movie, but then I saw two or three scenes on TV, like a trailer, and I almost thought... then I read your message and, damn, I'm going.

In all of this, the utmost respect goes to mom, UDI, and everything else.

Great album, but perhaps Malavasi's production suffered a bit from Petsciopboissite, flattening all the sounds towards an aesthetic of technopop, which was then, by the way, prevailing. Texts Daliesque to the core, of course. Unbeatable is the melodic sad line of Latin Lover, deep and musical pauses in "Toro," "Washington" in the wake of the best technopop of that time... Last gasp of Dalla who still had a desire for music, then just craftsmanship...

Oh, nothing against the brave @[JOHNDOE] who gave it his all and managed to convey his thoughts, but in truth, this is the classic product—I'm careful not to call it a film—which is as risky as it is misleading and, ultimately, pointless to watch without a good understanding of the facts, backstories, and misdeeds, perhaps driven by petty curiosity as much as by the desire to consult sources from various backgrounds.
And so, I find myself, I believe for the second time in less than a year, agreeing with the Honorary President, who often writes simply because he has an opposable thumb (artificial, I believe...) but this time is compelled to argue very close to "seriously." Even though he does so with his sparkling and scathing rhetoric...
Humbly, I retreat and schedule about twenty therapy sessions right after Christmas; I feel an urgent need to rid myself of the awkward question "Are we all @[puntiniCAZpuntini]?"

Serious the subject, heavy the writing. Indeed, a matter not lacking its own charm and to which more and more of us should pay attention. The form and statement weigh a bit, however Rasko knows how to do better and in a way that's more immediately comprehensible among us poor distracted onlookers.
And it doesn't mean that I personally dislike baroque styles or long and articulated sentences, but, if you'll allow me, I would have leaned a bit more on the initial splatter to then argue in a lighter manner... but these are all my musings, you know how to do it without my considerations, good heavens especially then.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, perhaps more editorial than review, but I don't feel like criticizing what Lulù has written. Matteo, after all, certainly has a star tattooed on his brain and a chestnut curl planted on his heart. I know, I can see them.
Rock and Roll, then...

Talking about Cortona's disarticulated work is like shooting at the Red Cross, unless the review is done by Mollica... And do we really want to go back to his nonexistent vocal abilities? Do we really want to reiterate that without Saturnino, even the laughable artistic results (???) he achieved would never have happened? Seriously, do we want to repeat that yes, as a singer, he’s worth less than a frozen piece of shit, as a songwriter even worse, but still, he has a social and ecological conscience that’s remarkable? Please, ladies and gentlemen, let’s go back to the used works and leave it at that. The present album is, if possible, even more unbearable and useless than the previous ones. The clever gentleman mentioned above is right to gather his followers in stadiums, on beaches, and in sports halls; for heaven's sake, he and his friend Vascorossi have understood, with two different approaches (I won’t dare call them styles, heaven forbid...) that it's possible to deceive the gullible with a couple of screams, a stadium-like chorus, empty words—so empty that come on, "borrowed" concepts (cit. RV) and the ecology of my sack.... We can't shake this off, it's irremovable in any way, it’s part of the absurdities that have turned into poetry (I say poetry, I swear, I heard it on national radio, prime-time program...) of the collective imagination by now.... Inability turned into style, mediocrity ascended to message.

You've simply stumbled into the universe of Battiato, which many consider or label as pop but which is actually and remains unclassifiable, yet without any elite arrogance or hairy outstream desires. There you go.