Lostinspace

So much love. So much stuff. So much nostalgia.

Beautiful review. Read in one breath despite its density. Among the many high school readings, I almost overlooked it. Appointment only postponed. Thank you. And very well done.

Today I realized that my scrotum has an intrinsic beauty. I wanted you to know.

Now I can also understand serial reviewing, serial onanism, serial meteorism. In 2013, anything goes. But everything, everything, huh? However, stumbling upon a review of Ramazzotti on the homepage, complete with a fresh and barely concealed tracbaitrac, is something that violently disturbs me from within. I mean, we’re even talking about an “11-minute suite” here. I just can’t grasp it. Of course, music is something delicate, tastes are highly personal. But here we are talking about the possibility of being submerged in a flow of crap for 660 seconds amidst magnificent arrangements and a truly stunning saxophone finale. I can't imagine a worse death. Ramazzotti has no class. He might be liked, but class is something else entirely. Please. An interpreter of the cheap Italian song for now twenty years, Eros is a byproduct of our music scene with an inexplicable following abroad. One of those aberrations that wounds me both as a man and as a lover of this sublime art. Just a few days ago, yet another child of a talent show triumphed at Sanremo. I feel surrounded, overwhelmed, encircled by a series of useless hustlers who use my language to spread nebulized feces in the air. I am profoundly depressed.

On the 8th, I’ll see him in Turin. Is it going to be the twentieth time? I’ve lost count. A friend, before even being a great singer-songwriter. “So Softie,” someone very dear to me used to say. Loving Niccolò’s music is the most evident demonstration of that. I feel like I don’t need to justify this personal and intense inclination of mine, which has grown and matured over the years through the many concerts I've seen around Italy. The fact that such a personal and terrible tragedy has finally made greater visibility and appreciation for his music possible is somewhat aberrant. But we are in a time like this, a time where voyeurism, morbidity, and shallowness reign supreme. It’s no coincidence that the Puttaniere is making a comeback. And we prepare to welcome him with his filthy entourage of drooling servants and scantily clad maidens. Daje Niccolò.

I'm listening now. Wonder.

Smoldering diarrhea, a worthy episode of the soul-selling of a group now completely enslaved to lowbrow showbiz. The hinted tracbaitrac makes everything look quite beautiful and my anus very much inclined to serial flatulence.

You are evil. You have no respect for my quore canùto. Prut!

Guys, I’m getting older. It’s official. The other day, I found myself shedding a tear over “A passa d'uomo” while driving home. Perhaps the most sentimental, impersonal, and predictable song on the album, where all of De Gregori from these decades is assembled in a rather school-like and at times embarrassing way. And indeed, it’s sentimental. There are pieces of glass, travel companions, a sprinkle of Atlantis, two drops of Harlequin, things, echoes of journeys and mirages and mascara and fuck you to the actor’s suitcase. I’m getting older because just like the elderly, I get emotional when old friends come to visit and I discover that they haven’t changed under their wrinkling skin, that they are the same as always. Always and forever. Fuck this record that makes me feel damn at home, among my things and my greatest loves and still the memories of what has been, when in the long timeless nights, to the notes of Francesco, I wondered why. Of a melancholy. Of a pain. Of a blinding joy. Of a void just as sudden. So Softie someone called me. They were right. Fuck.

Damn. Just plain damn.