odradek

I hadn't read it back then. It's beautiful. And this thing about "the past moment" is nice, great site.

I only listened to them in the vinyl pusher's shop near my house, when he played them for the young guys who came to pick out their daily doses of vinyl. I don't remember the blender precisely, I don't remember anything precisely, to be honest... But how much of this garbage has passed through the auditory apparatus all the way up to the innocent neurons over the centuries, Monsignore? How could it be, how?

Psycho often manages to express in two words what I'm thinking, so all that's left is to "quote." @[luludia] Coming to your rhetorical question at the beginning, since the rest of the text is a delicious, articulate, valuable, descriptive and exhaustive answer. In summary: records like this don't belong at the top. - You've been looking more handsome for a while now.

Curiously, aside from the differences in style and approach, I find that what you’re saying seems quite overlapping with what was on the Noveccentrico page some time ago. I had downloaded and listened to the album; I think I understood what made it sound so "unique" to them, but, probably due to age limits I’ve reached, I didn't find it very interesting. However, I don’t find rock all that interesting either, in the end. Let’s say that their "non-rock" part, musically speaking, is the best, for me.

I haven't listened to this album in at least 20 years, probably more. I didn't even remember I had it until I read you. An opportunity to dust it off (literally, who knows where the vinyl has ended up...)

What you describe is a record that should succeed in the complicated endeavor of making "work" combinations that usually generate messes that I find hard to digest, in the fragrance of I would but I can't, halfway attempts that end up losing their way. But you seem convincing, I will listen. I found it here Not Found

I’m not sure if it’s what you say, the core. On the other hand, with my father, it’s always difficult to find a "core": I myself, generated by his hand, do not know, and will never know, I believe, what I am, what my "core" is, the ultimate meaning of his meticulous description. However, it is precisely this, one of the things that fascinates us about him, the definitive precision of words, their geometric concatenation, the inexorable course of their path that invariably leads us to the center of the labyrinth. - In this case: is it an elegy of the waiting for the impossible or waiting as the ultimate form of resistance to the real? Is it really Beckett? Or is it rather a mockery of vanity, the illusory claim to one day arrive at the unveiling of some truth, the "core" of the matter of matters, the very meaning of existence, perhaps delivered directly to us via a messenger, straight from the Supreme Authority? Well, rereading for the umpteenth time the little page of Franz, thank goodness, the doubts not only remain, but unfold into other streams, opening up to further possibilities. One of which, the one you suggest, is no less interesting than the others. - The fact remains that I always thank fate for having directed my mischievous eleven-year-old hand towards the copy of "The Metamorphosis," cleverly snatched away, rather than towards other books present at that newsstand in the square. Yes, damn it, without Kafka it wouldn’t have been the same. I can't imagine it with many others.

The emperor – so the story goes – has sent to you, to a single person, to a miserable subject, a mere shadow lost in the most distant distance from the imperial sun, right to you the emperor has sent a message from his deathbed. He made the messenger kneel by the bed, whispering the message in his ear; and he pressed so much that he had it repeated in his ear. With a nod of his head, he confirmed the accuracy of what was being said to him. And in front of all those who were witnessing his death (all the walls that obstruct it are brought down, and on the wide, high stairs, the great ones of the realm are arranged in a circle) in front of all of them, he dismissed the messenger. The latter set off immediately; he is a sturdy, tireless man; maneuvering now with one arm, now with the other, he makes his way through the crowd; if he is obstructed, he gestures to his chest marked with the sun, and proceeds more easily than anyone else. But the crowd is so enormous; and their dwellings are never-ending. If he had a clear path, outside, how he would fly! and soon you would hear the magnificent knocks of his hand at your door. But instead, how he tires himself uselessly! still trying to make his way through the rooms of the innermost palace; he will never be able to get past them; and even if he did, it would be of no use; he would have to break through all the stairs; and even if he succeeded, it would be of no use: there are still all the courtyards to cross; and behind them the second palace and so on for millennia; and even if he managed to rush out the last door – but this will never happen – there is the whole imperial city before him, the center of the world, filled with all its refuse. No one can pass through there, much less with a message from a dead man.
But you stand at the window and dream of it, when evening comes.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis and Other Stories, (Mondadori)

Eh, scribbler... The Tuxedo is an unmistakable clue, you like to win easy :)

RepuBBlica. - The audible piece on the Old Europa Cafe site isn't bad.