Eneathedevil

In my opinion, if @[IlConte] and I were to sit down at a table, after about half an hour of conversation we would end up telling each other to fuck off (seriously), because just by looking at it, we would find ourselves in total disagreement on a series of topics, primarily musical tastes. But there is this element of pure sharing that connects us, which is nothing more than a noble misanthropy towards a good part of humanity, and that is manifest, not coincidentally, in relation to a glaring example like that of curling supporters, who suddenly wake up every four years since the recent Winter Olympics in Turin to talk about this absolutely absurd sport. The discomfort towards people is a noble art that must always and anyway be cultivated: it eliminates excess toxins, combats free radicals, and prevents skin aging.

The album must be something profoundly distant from my tastes (as previously mentioned), but the cover is of such a sheepish beauty that it’s impossible not to fall in love with it at first sight.

Well, in the end, even for an absolute genius like Steve Roach, it is physiologically impossible not to reinvent himself after dozens of cosmic-ambient-new age albums where the variations on a theme inevitably end up being quite circumscribed and limited. Sure, after releasing a sequence of works like Dreamtime Return, Strata, World's Edge, and Magnificent Void, Steve can comfortably live off his sales for another century, so it makes sense that some of his works from the 2000s onward aren't particularly memorable. I haven’t listened to Kiva, but Roach’s body of work is so vast that it’s practically impossible to listen to even half of his albums properly. Maybe in a couple of years, I’ll give this one a listen too, at my leisure. There’s time. After all, Steve has no intention of packing up.
Five stars to you, Cervo, even though the review could have said a bit more. But a piece written about Roach deserves more attention here on Deb than the two unfortunate comments from the site’s two electro-heads.

I make a leap of faith in believing you when you say that you’ve prominently displayed this CD among your collection of semi-obscure Brazilian bossa nova artists. I do it because that’s exactly what makes this page exceptional. Just so you know.

You need to explain to me how I managed to find a Renault 4 for sale in the middle of the 2000s, something that not even in the worst corners of the Palermitan countryside (where, I swear, in those same years, I saw people proudly showing off strictly white Opel Kadetts) could be found. As for the rest, this time you've hit the mark with chiasmus, alliteration, and synesthesia: your latest piece is truly beautiful. Just as Vinicio is absolutely hideous. Kisses.

There’s nothing to say about this album that hasn’t already been said, to the point that I don’t understand the purpose of this supposed reissue with the same historic tracklist as the original. It’s still worth noting McDonald’s contribution and the importance of the mellotron in this and other masterpieces of '70s prog.

I am the one who comes from afar to ruin this atmosphere of jubilant and fraternal love, for I care too much for Carella and the poetry of Panella was something else entirely. Don't hold it against me, Dislo, but for once I won't be a Christian Democrat!

This year, I really set a record for indifference towards Sanremo, managing the not-so-easy feat of not watching a single second even by pure accident when I happen to sit on the couch and accidentally press the remote control button. I had to catch up later by listening to those 5 or 6 songs that were most talked about, and I can say that of the top three, the only one I can tolerate is Elisa, since Mahmood's song is an annoying crowd-pleaser sung in an even more irritating way by the mumbled voice of our favorite Italo-Egyptian, and Morandi's piece is simply idiotic. The rest? It’s true: Truppi deserved more, and the song by La rappresentante di lista is, like it or not, going to remain one of the most memorable of this Sanremo. As for the subtext, which is more important than the lyrics in this festival, Amadeus gets on my nerves not just for his proverbial ignorance but for his cloying way of acting as if everyone is his great friend and it’s nice to care for one another by calling each other cute nicknames like "Fiore" (how much it irritates me when he does that!) and laughing repeatedly at the dumbest of jokes when there’s absolutely nothing funny. I don’t think there’s a single person on the face of the Earth who can stand Ferilli.
The review is the usual hammering written with a disgraceful trampling of punctuation, redeemed by a good number of impactful passages where you can see there’s potential, but the tailor is missing to give it some nice cuts where needed. In my opinion, in a couple of years, when he becomes a little man and corrects his course, he will give us reviews that are truly outstanding.

Edit to the review: "Dedicated to my friend Degregorius." See the old version De Gregori - Francesco De Gregori - recensione Versione 1

Sorry, I was passing by and just wanted to say that this album is totally awesome.

Always extremely punctual!