Bartleboom

"It's smashing music, so you can insert the compact disc into your personal computer's drive and use it as a soundtrack while you play Quake." 5 now.

Unfortunately, I am just now discovering this page and the related discussion. It is not my intention to rekindle the flame. I just wanted to make sure that the tag #geenoomerda is being used. Have a great day, everyone.

Hemorrhoids were a problem. But only because I hadn't yet experienced the "guilty basking in the stoning of pride"!!!

Unfortunately, I share the same doubts as Caz. I see the good Omar too caught up in his seven billiards of projects, collaborations, and contaminations. He releases four albums a year and meanwhile makes movies, soundtracks, has projects with painters... And I’m almost certain I’ve read a recipe for "Sgonfiottini di pasta brisè e fave alla Omar" on Giallo Zafferano. The problem is that if you're ugly and half Mexican and then you buy a guitar, at first, everything is fine because 1) you have rage because you're not getting laid 2) you channel your rage about not getting laid into the instrument 3) drugs. But then, however, 1 + 2 + 3 leads you to find someone to hook up with. Almost immediately you lose 1) and 2). If you’re lucky, you still have 3). But the worst nightmare can also set in for all those who adored you when there were 1), 2), and 3), namely 4) "I’m a great artist, I don’t need sex and drugs, just the guitar is enough for me." In the worst cases, 5) can also emerge ("Jesus is my drug. My guitar and my soul are at His service"). It must be said that his mother passed away a few years ago, and from what I understand, it hit him pretty hard, so maybe he has already reached 6) ("Còdìò! Why did you abandon me! Now I’m angry again!!1!"). Let’s hope...

Deplorable page. The usual two idiotic concepts that are now more boring than Sanremo itself, even borrowed with a mere copy/paste. Get off the homepage!

It's not my genre and perhaps it never will be, but to me this album seems to have a beauty that "leaves you speechless," but in the version for ears.

Now that I think about it, we could record farts and attach them to the review as samples. Then everyone could listen through headphones to each other's farts while farting their own, creating a sensory short circuit where the smell is mine, but the sound is from my debaser friend, who is in turn listening to my sound. It would be the first case of "Brotherhood / Flatulence."

I dream of a collective editorial, where users let their guards down, surrender to emotions, open the doors of memory wide, and share with the site the deeply intimate recollection of passing gas in public...

Once I was at a nightclub on Corso Como for a hot friend's birthday. By the fourth law of thermodynamics of big lips, at this party there was so much hair that if you wanted to gather it, you'd need to change the vacuum cleaner: real hot girls, fake hot girls, girls not so hot but with such push-ups that you still look hot. The type that orders a gin and lemon, takes two sips, then puts down the glass and starts laughing, leaning on each other, and yelling "I'm toooo drunk!!!". Then they wave at the DJ (who usually has a bit of a mysterious name, like "Nathan", or some short fake foreign name like "Jack", but then his real name is Natale or Giambattista and he works at the post office), take selfies while making the peace sign (up their asses) and upload them as their FB profile, at 5 they call a taxi, have it take them home, remove their makeup, their real face, their now-flat ass, and their thighs with an obvious water retention problem no longer hugged by Wanna Marchi's little black dress remind them that time does not spare anyone and they die in bed until Saturday morning, when they get up to go to the Esselunga in Papiniano hoping to find someone to hook up with and then marry them because they're nearing their forties and all their friends have already popped out kids. I was saying, I was at this party and, at a certain point, I felt the urge to smoke. I stepped outside and found myself next to two friends of the birthday girl (I'd say one's a half-hot and the other one looks like she's straight out of a Roger Corman film in the morning, but that night I would’ve come all over even the car registration booklet) who, of course, took advantage of the situation to talk about one of the most annoying topics around, but which - apparently - women are crazy about: the benefits of soy milk and how it gives me “less trouble” compared to “normal” milk. I'm there listening, outside, smoking my joint... when I start feeling my butt swelling with a fart that could desertify the Milanese suburbs for at least seven or eight generations. Taking advantage of being outside, I decide to let loose and fart freely and impudently on these two fools and their bullshit discussion, when BAM! the nightclub music stops for ONE SECOND TWO to play the "Happy Birthday" song just as I decide to release some gas from my trumpet of doom. Immediately, the music resumes, but by now my ass has produced the thunderous roar of a thousand avalanches and a shocking stench spreads through the air. Their conversation abruptly halts, but the blast catches them off-guard, and they are more frightened than disgusted. Plus, it's not good form to point out that there’s a shit smell reminiscent of New Year’s at the Piccione Calendar. I try to play it cool while smoking eagerly to cover the stench with the aroma of Mister Marlboro. Meanwhile, the music has kicked back in. I finish my cigarette and go back inside, acting indifferent while praying to every god available that an Olympic event of humiliation doesn't start at my expense. They come back in shortly after and immediately resume dancing, even grinding against the ashtrays. As if nothing happened… And that's all you need to know about slagg.

Everywhere you look, there are enthusiastic reviews of this album. Personally, it's starting to bore me a little. I find it somewhat bland, practically devoid of punch and truly interesting ideas. There's nothing wrong with it, but at the same time, I don't find anything exhilarating. In fact, there's not a single track that has really impressed me after the fifth listen (except perhaps Blackstar, which is more striking for its quirky arrangements than for the true beauty of the song).