Lostinspace

Holy shit, what a review. It threw me off completely. Like Vinicio yesterday at the Cortile delle Carrozze at the Reggia di Venaria. I'm putting it among my favorites, you're a fucking genius.

Saw it live at F1 Rocks in Valencia. Damn. I was there for work, though.

Wow

Sistermidnight, come be with me, we could listen to DCFC sitting on a couch, tenderly embraced, feasting on shrimp and pink sauce. Think about it.

I agree with you, Hardrock92... far from pulling my hair out over the DCFC. It goes without saying that in Italy the aforementioned group represents a tiny fraction of the global annual revenue. But that's another story.

I've been listening to it for a few days now, distractedly at work and a bit more attentively in the car. I like the sound of DCFC, I like Gibbard's voice, I like the arrangements. I agree that Transatlanticism is their masterpiece, but this is a good album. I don't see any particular commercial intentions or overrating for this group which, at least in Italy - a fertile ground for mainstream and commercial music (to use euphemistic terms) - has a ridiculous following. It's a good album, I repeat, much more dignified than the latest works of washed-up bands that continue to sell their subpar product thanks to the glory of a distant past. A few names? U2, for example? Then honestly, who cares if they write terrible reviews about it: I've read a lot of reviews of this album in recent days. I've seen masterpieces get torn apart, not least Vinicio's. Peace, de gustibus...

Damn.

I love this group from the bottom of my heart. They are the gift of a precious friend that endures over time and renews itself. I enjoy the enthusiastic reviews, and yours shows a lot of that. However, I find it a bit immature and, to be honest, the almost "track by track" approach brings me the usual awkwardness. And then the punctuation, my dear. I share the debate on Debaser about the fact that this isn't primarily a place for syntax virtuosos, but rather a means to share music and passions... but really, it’s hard to read. Sorry editors, but who the hell edited this? I still need to listen to the album; I've been waiting for months. Today is the right day. Then, I’ll come back to say what happened in my little heart.

Well… every positive exchange (and I consider our back-and-forth to be one) always brings enrichment and new perspectives, doesn’t it? Therefore, I might be tempted now to read something else by McCarthy and you by Ammaniti. And we could talk about it again. Who knows. And as a sign of peace, we could set each other’s farts on fire… which is one of my favorite activities after reading. Thanks to you. PROT!

@Morgue: I can often be as meticulous as you, and I must say that my note, written amidst the busy folds of a dense workday, could (should?) have been better considered given the weight of your intervention, both in terms of content and form. And for the sake of controversy, I confess (I who detest anglicisms and the distortions of a language that I love and know—alas—very little, despite being my own) that I used the adjective "étonnante" because yesterday—due to reasons outside of debaserian matters—I found myself speaking more in French than in Italian. It slipped in there without warning. I could have said... shocking? And also, strongly does not mean insistent: the first adverb expresses "guilt," while the second one means "malice." Moreover, I did not say that McCarthy always writes "like this." He writes like this in this book; I haven't read others, so I take a step back. If we want to make a comparison with Ammaniti, it's entirely misplaced: we are talking about an Italian author and an American one. The Italian text of The Road is simply held hostage by the translator's choices, and therefore any comparison will never be entirely genuine. I only brought it up to underline its direct, sparse, and strongly evocative style, similar to that used in La Strada. But why on earth would Niccolò Ammaniti want to write like McCarthy? There's a merit judgment in your words, which I obviously do not share. The inevitability of an adverse destiny, against which one cannot rebel, the fragility of existence, the depth of the bond between father and son, the madness of those who plunge into pain, the intimate thoughts that cannot be told... all this and much more is present in Come Dio Comanda. Is it worth less, rendered poorly just because it speaks of Quattroformaggi and not of a nameless American? Or is it simply because it unfolds in the mist of a small town in Northern Italy and not in a burned, devastated, and perpetually gray world? Where lies the greatness, Morgue? What instills more fear, pity, compassion? Which literary path and which authors must be cited to support a good book? Good ol' Cormac, with the help of the Cohen brothers, has planet-wide visibility. Niccolò has a more homemade dimension, being able to count on the (albeit very valid) Salvatores for the film adaptation of his books. The sounding board can skew judgments, in my humble opinion. Sometimes, the name alone is enough. Like foreigners in football: how can one compare a Sneijder to a Diamanti? If this is a masterpiece for you, I have nothing to object; I gave it stars, not one or zero. For me, it remains a good book and nothing more. With all due respect to Kafka, Beckett, and Gadda, and to Niccolò Ammaniti.