Eneathedevil

I have to be a little tough on @[withor] when analyzing yet another one of his writings, which is constantly anchored to his vaguely redundant narrative style, excessively didactic and aesthetically flawed, full of quotations that weigh down the reading in a flood of muddy bold text. However, he holds an undisputed record here on Deb – and I’ve seen many reviewers over the past twenty years – for his ability to arouse genuine curiosity about the subject he discusses, because his genuine enthusiasm and meticulous attention to detail as he expounds on any item that falls into his hands are so admirable that they prompt the reader to take a leap of faith and, despite the general foolery that always permeates the pages of the site where we all promise to “give a listen” to the suggested work without ever following through, actually push the reader to lend an ear to the work to see whether it's all nonsense or if there’s a kernel of truth among so many words of praise. Or at least that’s what happened to me after reading this latest piece, since I went back to listen to this album after decades. So, all in all, let's say bravo to him. And sure, Bennato has done way better, but faced with such praise, it almost seems like this album is even better than I remembered.

Let's keep it safe for a few months until they forget the password again. <3

Cute, come on. It’s basically part of that series of Studio Ghibli feature films with a storytelling approach that's more purely aimed at children, without the grisly overtones typical of something like "Nausicaa" or "Princess Mononoke." That doesn’t mean these are less complex works lacking in layered references, but they definitely benefit from a simpler and more straightforward development. I actually liked it more than some of Hiyazaki’s more famous and celebrated films, because in the end, I’m a big softie, and what I appreciated most was nothing more and nothing less than the pure, selfless friendship between the two children—who, in the end, you can’t help but root for from the very beginning of the film, seeing as the whole point of the narrative is to celebrate a bond of affection, not to defeat some demon or bring an end to a war in a dystopian finale. For once, that’s perfectly fine, so hooray for little fish and hooray for sweet, adorable children.

I will structure my comment in a chiastic form, starting with the review, which is evidently far-fetched in the sense that @[HOPELESS] borrows from Bowie's discography one of the few things still left unreviewed in order to express his opinion about the artist more than about the work itself; it is no coincidence that the writing meanders erratically, with the reviewer doing and saying whatever the hell he wants, adhering to an ancient model of analysis typical of the old-style debaserian school.

As for Bowie, a few words must be spent because perhaps the most interesting aspect of the general perception of his work is precisely the noticeable number of detractors or, even better, “ignorers,” divided between his contemporaries who never loved him and the children of those contemporaries who never knew him and who more easily gravitate towards a Mercury or a Marley. Of course, his detached, not always empathetic British spirit never helped him nor helps him today in gaining credit among the youth, but in my view, the deeper and more meaningful issue is the very conflict between art and life, that, grasped in its intimate essence, inevitably leads to a feeling of love and hate towards the man/musician/actor Bowie: to grasp this quintessence can only mean to love that morbid drive to live among fame and excess that involves reincarnations, ascents, failed metal experiments, pop muzak, downfalls, oblique strategies. Failing to grasp it makes one succumb to the shadows of superficial knowledge, which box the Aladdin Sane mask into a glam cliché and ignore the fact that the best things, in my indisputable opinion, the Duke accomplished in the second half of the ‘90s with the “real” trilogy: the electronic one of Buddha of Suburbia - 1. Outside - Earthling.

Returning to the review, I have reason to believe that the same “feeling” of the Bowie man/artist/character is being perpetuated. In the final paragraph, which serves as a conclusion, where Hope must confront the unusual and, for him, uncomfortable burden of personal narration, distancing himself from his narrating self with a sloping impersonal form (“si richiedeva,” “ci si fa ritorno”), the theme of a personal desire to listen to the English artist in a particular temporal context emerges, along with the almost blasphemous juxtaposition with U2 (n.d.r. the fil rouge here is the deus ex machina Eno). I want to believe (or hope?) that this implies that very “grasping” mentioned above. Excellent.

Yes, fine, ten years waiting to see one of your reviews and you write this crap full of cheeky and insolent expressions like we used to do twenty years ago? Besides, nowadays what’s cool here is jazz played by black people and industrial folk, so you’re off topic. And anyway, I used to like the Rugrats too. Bye.

I like the Raphael-inspired concept on the cover, the rest a bit less. As for you, I like you—moderately.

I saw the cover and thought it was a review of Jarre's Equinoxe, but instead, it’s the usual characters of questionable moral integrity associated with ZiOn.

Yes, but the reviewer, by doing so, speaks of hypnocracy using the same means, since a review on an Internet site is itself part of the digital maelstrom mentioned above, and at the moment I comment, I myself create a hypnocratic digital microcontext on a hypnocratic text that discusses a hypnocratic book. And whoever comments on this comment will potentially extend the loop infinitely. Should we therefore recognize in the reviewer the intensive powers of a demiurge who creates semiotic connections from nothing to infinitely replicate a metalinguistic process? Or, much more likely, did they just get lucky, obviously.

What lovely idiots 🍆❤️🍆

A little kiss, sweetheart?