Eneathedevil

That "maybe even better than Mozart" cries for vengeance, but it fits well with the grim blasphemy that pervades your writing. Ah, and I prefer Wendy's version, but you know I'm biased. Hello, beautiful opal.

Yes, but you know well that Impedance Z = R + jX, so to have one Ohm of Resistance and Impedance, Reactance must be zero. This invalidates the assumption, and probably the rest of the review as well.
The record is light and pleasant: I’m not saying this to sound pale and absorbed, but it stands somewhat in relation to the Second Annual Report as the Faust Tapes do to the first Faust, so it’s almost a breath of fresh air with a slight undertone of poppers.

Listened to it again today after a while and I found it even more astonishing than I did at first. One of the most interesting releases of recent years. You, Miki, where the hell have you been? Have you found a couple of nostalgic raves to beat up in the neighborhood? Come back to writing, so maybe you can give me some more tips: I need some fresh, independent, and a bit pissy listens, and you had plenty of those.

I mean, @[ZiOn], what I’m saying is: you hold such a grudge against Scaruffino and yet you end up sharing his opinions nine times out of ten. I say this to annoy you because I know it drives you absolutely crazy, ROTFL. But that’s not the point, since we’re discussing the value of Riccardo D. Giacomo, and once again, among throngs of young and not-so-young people united by their greedy desire to receive a sprinkle of my insightful knowledge, the wisdom will be offered free of charge, breaking the usual Gordian knot that ensnares most. Truly, I say to you: Who uses a mathematical formula as the title of a piece and then chisels sounds on it so that his deformed dick-like face appears in a spectrogram, as you call it? I call him a serial joker. And so yes, in this as in countless other endeavors, Riccardino has shown he just wants to have fun messing around without having to answer to anyone for his (supposed) talent. And that talent, no two ways about it, he throws in your face in the blink of an eye, even in that moment after the solemn bullshit of the "formula" in Windowlicker, because before you know it he pulls out a wonder like "Nannou" that could be an apocryphal work of Philip Glass or Satie, a bit like saying: "When I want to, I stop messing around and I’ll purge you hard, but only if I feel like it." So a top-class joker, obviously, from which you can only choose to take or leave, knowing there are things in the gift package that are truly worth it and solemn nonsense for which thank God there exists the magnificent option of the skip button.

I was ready with the lye to give you torment, but I had to desist since it’s clear that in doing so I would have scored a spectacular own goal: the precious mentor who inspired you has at the same time saved you. And I feel I can trust, so much so that I truly promise to listen to him. Hello rificolone.

I won't tear you apart because I'm a well-known yes-man. But in just two lines, you managed to:
- Not make it clear how you judge the album (yes, I know, it's not really necessary: we can leave everything in the limbo of the unjudged, who are we to give judgments and blah blah blah, but in my opinion, in a ZOT!, you also need to condense your point of view);
- To quote a herbal tea that is a real jumble, where you included three out of three Asteraceae, I mean, I repeat, THREE out of THREE: thistle, dandelion, and artichoke, something that practically no respectable brand of infusions and the like should ever put into circulation;
- But above all, in just two lines, you managed to make two mistakes: "tarasacco" instead of "tarassaco" (did no one notice this?) and "caffé" with a grave accent.
Forget about humiliation: something like this deserves at least house arrest.

Yes, these early albums by Dalla certainly lacked a good dose of cohesion, a narrative thread, a concept: "Storie di casa mia" is the necessary title for a collection of works with ups and downs, without the "red thread that connects all these stories" as Roversi would say, making it difficult in the end to make sense of the pushes toward unchallenged heights and the disastrous falls into the valley. But then we have "La casa in riva al mare," "Un uomo come me," "Il gigante e la bambina," and certainly "4/3/1943," so in the end, it’s hard not to be somewhat generous in the evaluation, even though the works with Roversi and especially the albums from the golden era of the late '70s are superior.
It's difficult not to show similar generosity toward good Withor, despite the didactic nature of certain passages. But those long bold quotations are the last time I’ll let them slide… for those there’s italics. I recommend it.

I could never read it, for with your (meta)paratactic style, you have cunningly revealed the form to me, far from being food for my aesthetic.

However, I’ll sign up for a threesome with @[asterics]. I promise I’ll put everything back in order myself.

Really cute: philologically it's interesting because it contains in nuce all the elements that will later explode in our best films. For me, it remains a decent product that can't compete with the films of maturity: these early works of Hitchcock, I would say at least until "Rebecca," which for me is the watershed, physiologically lack the gigantism of the great actor couples that made films like "Notorious," "Vertigo," "To Catch a Thief," etc., great, so in my view they remain very good works, but without that extra something in acting that defined the great masterpieces from the late '40s to the '60s.
Beautiful closing, Poldo: it says more than the rest of the review.

But you know this resembles you? I've always thought so. Of course, you have a more hygienically maintained set of teeth, that should be mentioned.