Eneathedevil

Well, I don’t know, I’m confused. The point is that I liked Currents with its lounge electronics and Let it Happen was the track of the decade. That narcissistic hippie Parker takes five years, I mean, I don't know if you understand, five years to make an album and this amplifies the same urge you have the night you got the Pandino from your parents to load up Luisella from the front desk, and the result is a bit disconcerting. At the very least, you expect, I don’t know, a double album with one part psych-prog and another electro-dub that suddenly reminds you of the best of Mercury Rev (you mentioned them, I saw you, but not those fluffy ones from d.B. - after Boces - from which came the cataclysm, but the fabulous epiphany of Yerself is Steam) and the not-worst of Spacemen 3 with a brash touch of Depeche Mode with a catchy chorus, instead this little thing comes out that could be an elongated EP (since they already started spoiling it more than a year ago with the first single "Borderline") or a transitional album of an already shining career, with some nice ideas but nothing that screams miracle. I need to listen to it again, but Currents and Lonerism (in my opinion, another great album) grabbed me right away, while here love hasn’t clicked.
A charmingly disjointed review in full debaseriota style: a lot of words ad mentulam and little juice to understand the ereignis. I’d like to reward the reviewer but I’m afraid they’ll get a swelled head like Parker and make us wait 5 years to read a new review. Here you go.

Anyway, I wanted to open a thread about the metamusical aspect of the album. For the 2-3 people who have really listened to it, I want to remind you that the Bidels and the Rollinstòns are mentioned with their biggest hits (All You Need is Love and Satisfaction). Now this might sound like nonsense, but this is truly a rare case where a bridge is created between the underground and the mainstream, providing a connection between two incompatible worlds like the German kraut scene and British rock. Through the citation of All You Need is Love in Why don't you Eat Carrots, for the first time, two antithetical worlds communicate and we realize that Kraut existed back in the days of British rock and that it wasn’t a parallel world where people like Sossna ignored the existence of the Bidels and the Stones, dismissing consumer music with a disdainful rejection. Pop references pop, rock references rock, experimental music references experimental music. When Battiato played his experimental crap for a handful of listeners in the '70s, he referenced Tonto's Expanding Head Band Orchestra, not Edoardo Vianello. And Rihanna sings over samples from Soft Cell, not Soft Machine. Then, well, there are odd cases like Nek plagiarizing Aphrodite's Child, but oh well, maybe that's the exception that proves the rule.

So, about the story of Casu Marzu, you’ve been really annoying us because everyone says it’s out there, you just need to catch the farmer and ask, but I went to Gallura and Barbagia just for that and found only pecorinos that were actually not very ripe, even mushy and soft, much less rancid than the first Sicilian pecorino I found in the fridge yesterday after a week of absence. In Orgosolo, I even found a family slaughtering a sheep in their garage, but when it came to cheeses with the verminaia, not even a whiff. The pane frattau, on the other hand, is a bit of a mess.
A review of incredibly poor quality perfectly aligned with the level of the work. I would like to rate it 1, but the reviewer, whom I don’t know personally and believe is an up-and-comer in the debaser scene, would interpret that as a chic affectation. So HERE YOU GO.

It's a lovely record. I mean, I found a reasonably priced reissue at a deli in Brussels, and seeing it all white in a clear sleeve with an X-ray of a hand, you can't help but fall in love with it. It's one of those slightly cool-retro things that look great in any Italian living room, kind of like Roy Lichtenstein's paintings; they might not be to everyone's taste, but if you hang one in your living room, you'll look fantastic as a social entertainer. I keep this record prominently displayed like a lobster, so when people come over, they compliment my aesthetic choice almost as if I had a Lichtenstein painting. And if after a couple of hours my guests start to stink, I just put it on the turntable, and the house will clear out instantly. By the way, just to clarify, I like Faust IV much more. Or even Kraftwerk. A self-indulgent and annoyingly masturbatory review, thus deserving of the highest score.

I was listening to this soundtrack with uncontainable joy, and it struck me that somewhere on this beautiful site, some scoundrel had written that the Trainspotting OST was crap, like smoked mackerel sticks, and I wanted, now more than ever, to express my discontent by emphasizing that the soundtrack is awesome and is a treasure of the memorial because Iguana wouldn't have delivered that marvelous performance if it weren’t for this film reviving his fabulous hairless chest. I also recall reading about a supposed decline of Underworld since Born Slippy, while I want to remind everyone that Beaucoup Fish, released a few months later, still slaps hard today and is my favorite since Dubnobasswithmyheadman. I'm listening to Lurìdo right now and I'm totally pumped. Great soundtrack and insensitive beasts those who don’t appreciate this work. Take that.

17:42 Eneathedevil finds brüt a flashy video posted by iside.

A review quite in tune with the work: I have never really liked our national Lolli because of his, precisely, inclination towards lagna-rock. I have known the reviewer for some time and he is an unreliable person to whom I have not forgiven a slip about Battiato in 2008, which is why I don't want to elevate him with a 1-1 or this would relegate him to the undeserved section of damned reviewers, so I assign a nice half score to both the review and the work that represents the utmost disdain, especially since I have always hated "acquarello" instead of a more correct "acquerello."

In general, when you cast McDormand as the tormented mother (e.g. America Oggi) and Harrelson as the troubled sheriff (e.g. Non è un paese per vecchi), you can't go wrong. Since you were talking about 7 Psychopaths where Tom Waits gets me going (and he's also in America Oggi where, as usual, he acts better than he sings), I discovered that that gorgeous Abbie Cornish, who plays the sheriff's wife here, also starred in that one, and for crying out loud, you deserve a couple of Forche Caudine for not mentioning her in the review, so that's one less point and plenty of spankings from the dwarf.

I wanted to see it, but then a dear friend of mine with terrible taste told me he liked it, so I decided to go into hiding. I’ll think about it for another week to give couples time to mess up the theaters with their moods, and then I’ll go. I won’t read the review or you’ll ruin the surprise for me.

I've already heard enough (it's a good three-quarters of an hour) and I can say that as usual, tempers are flaring more than necessary. Let's start with an undeniable fact: the enjoyment is skewed. The marketing operation with which the AF shot their best album tracks through a questionable drip of singles has essentially delivered to listeners an album that, inevitably, has few other pieces that are in some cases worse than the lead singles. Trying to evaluate it in its entirety, it's the worst album by the Canadians, and there’s no doubt about that, but the avalanche of criticism is unreasonable. They still manage to hit on a good number of catchy melodies, and in some tracks, they revive their proverbial class ("Creature Comfort," however you want to put it, is their old power pop from the days of Funeral with the necessary differences). And Everything Now seems to me like a Frankie Valli song, if anything. A sufficient album and don’t break your balls.