Eneathedevil

You have opened an interesting conclave: I agree with a good part of the considerations expressed so far, so I just want to respond to @[Dislocation] regarding the alleged memorability of the pieces by the Squallidi: "Do you really remember anything from their discography?" Well, the answer is "Yes." Aside from the already acclaimed bittersweet ballads by Totò Savio ("O Camionista," "Cornutone," the masterpiece "O tiempo se ne va"), there are tracks arranged and "staged" with a formal perfection (voluntary? Yes, that could be another topic for discussion) worthy of being remembered alongside many successes of contemporary Italian singer-songwriting, albeit with the necessary differentiations. There is no cry of dissent, no sneer, no well-calibrated insult that feels out of place in the "calm chaos" of "Confucio"; there is no more iconic and fitting representation of Cerruti's "Incubo," where upon waking he can't help but call his Maria to tell her to take advantage of the moment: "Vieni qui, c'ho un'erezione... Speriamo che non piscio, se no mi si ammoscia!"; there isn’t a protagonist that is too much in the crescendo of the peculiar "L'Alluvione" that could provide material for a surreal ballad by De Gregori. Is there much more? No. A few more songs by Savio, a few more happy duets between Pace and Cerruti, a few more memorable "Marcia Longa" through the oddities of the world. So it is certainly not my intention to say that we have been in the presence of an unforgettable phenomenon in the history of Italian music. But I also steer clear of the opposite extreme: one should not dismiss as useless and sterile everything that seems to invoke apparent gratuitous vulgarity. Sometimes the image of a "mazza che nun s'arrizza" can be more powerful than a tender lyric by Sappho in expressing the dismay in the face of passing time.

I still can’t listen to it with any real continuity, so I’m shooting off my four daily rants based on an overall perception that I refrain from translating into a rating.
So. It seems overall inspired, as derivative as it might be, yet capable of absorbing a series of musical suggestions that denote, at the very least, a thorough knowledge from Incani of the contemporary international scene and beyond. Some see Radiohead, others Mogwai, some Spiritualized, some Wyatt (!), some Pandemonium: evidently, if he evokes such a crowded pantheon of acclaimed musicians from the world stage, he must have done a decent job of infusing the work with those multiple moods acquired through a natural process of osmosis. I then come to the painful note: what a piece of trickery is that invented language? A ploy to get the job done in a half-day. I had already been saying for a while that I found Incani weak on lyrics, with that DIE that had literally shattered my sperm ducts with salt, sun, and distant shores (the concept is fine but too much is overwhelming), and La Macarena su Roma with its long digressions laden with often querulous and predictable jabs. And now how does he come out of it? With "shewa weghe weghe bishi waaaa," which is the perfect compromise to wrap up the “poetics” of the record in a flash. What a shame. If he had managed to accompany nearly two hours of music with lyrics worthy of the hidden and “political” concept (apparently) to which the album alludes, we might have truly witnessed an absolute masterpiece. Instead, this whisper ends up irritating me and partially invalidating the good in a work that, by its very nature, has significant potential. Anyway, there will be time to listen to it better and longer. If this time the ducts don’t shatter.

You really don’t think that I...

I have never allowed myself to commemorate any artist or personal idol who has passed away because it's not in my nature, but I gladly make a stop here. The good Franco has accompanied my adolescence since I was 15, the age at which I sequentially bought the first compilation and the happy "Gommalacca," which had come out a few months earlier, almost belatedly compared to other idols I had cherished years before, perhaps because it was reasonably tied to a listening experience that had to be more mature to grasp the cultured references. In short, during the time between high school and university, he was certainly the musician I followed to the most concerts and whose albums I purchased the most (definitely over 20: I stopped keeping track in the last soft decade), so it goes without saying that I can only hold onto a memory that is more than vivid.

@[asterisco]: yours is a spontaneous review, imperfect and justifiably emotional, and should be appreciated as such. However, you know that period is one of the ones I like least about Battiato? The wave of indignation that flowed into songs like Povera Patria, in my opinion, could have been channeled better through different musical and lyrical choices. In my view, the lyrics were weak and, here and there, predictable. He would redeem himself, again in my opinion, shortly after with the excellent Caffè de la Paix. Interstellar greetings.

I'm late but you were absolutely on my to-do list (even though I hadn't noticed the dedication! Thank you 😘) just like that jerk Incani for whom I'm trying to find time for a continuous listen. Indeed, in your ancient, thick, and dusty 78 RPM record collection, you picked the least worse thing you could dedicate to me: Herbie can’t really be my style since jazz and I don’t go out much, but I can tolerate, if not almost enjoy his fusions, just like the psychedelic Davis from the seventies (see "Chameleon").
The review is perfectly in tune with the subject reviewed in terms of dynamism and lightness. And there are no ellipses, huh.

The point is that for me, the loss of Woody Allen as an actor - for physiological reasons - was the first step toward decline, as there is no and will never be an alter ego of Allen more fitting than Allen himself. I confess that even the well-received "Whatever Works" annoyed me at times because of the bland character of L. David, who was meant to embody the misanthropy and sarcasm of his alias (succeeding only in the first intent). Thus, since the mid-2000s, there have been only "decent" films, with a few that were quite above average ("Blue Jasmine," obviously), and some others below ("To Rome with Love," the worst of his career). However, this brings up another line of discussion, since, if you think about it, as @[Confaloni] rightly says, we are talking about the eighty-five-year-old Allen, and damn, 85 Earth years is really a lot when you consider a director who still makes a film every year and maintains a level that is, in fact, decent. "Wonder Wheel," from three years ago, is a very respectable film. I'll be watching this last one, and based on what I've read around, I don't think it will be that bad. In short, it's certainly not like old wine that improves with time, but in light of his prolific career, the fact that he still churns out a couple of films for a scarce hour and a half of pleasant entertainment is something I gladly forgive.

It should stand out on this page the usual polished eloquence of the Asterisk, but it's certainly more evident the finocchiesca drift that the accompanying comments have taken, to the point that I have almost, and I say almost, felt jealous, so I would kindly ask you to invite me next time to your gay parties because I don't like being excluded from the get-go.
Regarding the album, this is not the usual wartime relic in perfect asteriskian style, but one of the most interesting electro-jazz releases of 2021, in addition to the latest from Bell Orchestre by Sarah Neufeld, who always hops around between personal projects and Arcade Fire. I will give it a listen, maybe right after the Bells (I know you were eager to hear that).
Ah, the review is excellent.

Not my favorite, but definitely in the top 10 Schulzian: Floating gets me quite hyped while Mindphaser is already traveling into more challenging territories. All in all, the good Klaus with this 1976 record has shown that he is still in good shape for the rest of the '70s, gracefully crossing into the early '80s (Audentity a remarkable last gasp) and that's no small feat for an author of a genre, Kosmische Musik, so deeply rooted in a limited temporal context.

Great shout, @[RinaldiACHTUNG]: who knows, maybe this book will help me get closer to the man Lanegan, since I've never had much interest in the artist Lanegan.

Always quite perilous these bossa nova drifts on Deb: you know I'm focused on something else. One day, perhaps, I'll start taking an interest in it in your memory.