odradek

"In My Arms, Many Flowers" I liked, it met one of my right days as well. I will listen to this one too.

And I just imagined one of the tortures to inflict on the plebeian infiltrator @[JOHNDOE], if and when his inveterate musical (and otherwise) blasphemies lead him to the DeFermo of DePolizia...

Hi @[macaco] I'm here because of your comment on a review of Untitled from 9 years ago, what a twist.
I hadn't read this one, and I hadn't listened to the album: I'm doing that now, in the 2018 remastered version, and although it's a genre I rarely listen to and with some "effort," in this case it's a nice feeling, which you've described very well.

As you have graciously pointed out more than once, thank God I’m old enough to have escaped stuff like this. I see that these things can even generate a nostalgic longing: this is the true, unfathomable superpower.

You deserve it, Alberto Sordi.
At least this time you’ve earned it.
But you write things that are a bit too sharp to then pose as the King of the Ignorant; you’ve carved out a comfortable position for yourself.
Just like Sordi, being a little sly is, after all, a form of consistency for you.

If, while skirting the walls to preserve orifices destined for fates other than welcoming, you have nonetheless been pierced, like me, by the darts of capishoneria hurled from the text towards your poor innocent eyes, a small contribution:

ialina ---> Risultati della ricerca di "ialina" - Wikizionario

aduggiò ---> aduggiare - Wikizionario

Well, I don't know how to say it...
However, it occurs to me that perhaps the right words have already been written, almost 15 years ago, while talking about a completely different musician. But I think they quite accurately describe what happens to me with Ciampi. So, I might as well quote them as they are.
EMBARRASSMENT.
When I find myself in the presence of such a raw exercise in self-exposure, when the distance between representation and the living matter of which existences are layered is thin enough to become a deflowered and bleeding membrane, I feel a sense of embarrassment similar to that which overwhelms us as involuntary witnesses of an absolute and painful intimacy. It matters little that this is not an exercise in deliberate voyeurism. It is enough to remember that, after all, we have been invited into her emotional territory by her very own choice. That hers is a determined and explicit choice, a voluntary exhibition of the most stripped-down folds of a tormented story.

Ah, I've always thought that enthusiasm is dangerous, dear alcohol. As soon as I catch a glimpse of its shadow, I walk along the walls. If it's enthusiasm and it's a blonde, it's better to wear impenetrable steel underwear.

It's old now, this piece.

Here, one day, the new DeUsers will come on pilgrimage.
Here, where among the comments on a questionable film by the Swedish master, it all originated.
Here, where the Lord joyfully accepted the heavy burden, committing himself to lead an entire people of Capishoni towards ever bolder and brighter goals.
Here, where, as a humble servant, I will periodically return to kiss the monitor, where the clear white glow, framed in pink, welcomed His words: "Il titolo è mio E NESSUNO ME LO TOGLIE."
Here, in the Kingdom of King Ca Pish-The Real One!