Lostinspace

End reviewer.

Terry, let’s get married. Tempus fugit and you’re taking too long. I’m getting old and deteriorating before my eyes. Today, by the way, during yet another tracbaitrac debaseriota, my dick fell off. I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to put it back in place.

PROOOOOTTALLA'!

Your prose is truly elegant and at times very pleasant. Especially the first four lines caught my attention and led me to the end. However, I would completely avoid capital letters, which are really annoying. I don't know a damn thing about the Audience, and this contributes to my constant feeling of ignorance about music, no matter how much I listen to it. I can't really blame my parents, who had all of De André's vinyls in the drawer. It's entirely on me. Shit.

I quote, I have to quote: "In addition to the old tracks from the Ruggeriano repertoire, there are some unreleased songs that, in my opinion, are worth the purchase of the album." How old are you?

First of all, I hope God has different musical tastes and I am sure He could have done a better service to the world of music by preserving other artists and bands that, for the most varied reasons, did not survive the indecent career of these four pathetic musical hacks. Said by someone who loved them very much in his youth, among other things. I am convinced that in '91 it would have been better to break up, because from this album onwards (with some rare exceptions) they have only produced so much crap. And I mean a lot of it ("un dos tres.. catorce" was one of the most outrageous splashes), until they covered themselves in ridicule with the last two albums. The review, while full of a respectable albeit shockingly univocal passion, is somewhat hard to digest, so full of rather affected filler phrases and a comparison with the Beatles that turned my stomach. But then I realized you are a genius of evil... I understood I was reading a thinly veiled trap. My dick fell suddenly and broke through the floor, injuring the poor old lady who lives below me, who, innocent, was watching Prova del Cuoco. Now I’m at the emergency room of Mauriziano and I’m waiting for the doctors to let me know. What a beautiful shit day.

Nice review, well done, simple and with pleasant images that convey the idea. I like the guy (even though I much prefer some of his colleagues, like Mike Kinsella and Fionn Regan, to stick with the "one man band" theme). The album is quite nice and maybe my favorite is "I like the rain the most," which also ended up in some TV series I can't remember. Too many albums, 13 in total (one is a live album), I prefer quality over quantity: like Ryan Adams, Purdy risks drowning in his prolificacy.

Your preemptive positioning (here and in the notes) and boastful dislikes feel somewhat naive and stir a sense of tenderness. In any case, the review is decent as you at least attempt to convey the emotions this record evokes in you. The generalizations about indie music (a definition that is among the most controversial, by the way) and particularly regarding its supposed focus on arrangements to the detriment of lyrical content honestly cannot be taken seriously. Finally, the tracbaitrac... this has the same utility and generates the same sensations as a searing rod resting on the glans.

In short, first you condemn them and then you follow these talents... but with everything that the Italian scene has to offer, do we really need this circus set up for TV-addicted fools? Did we really feel the need for it? Must we always borrow all the crap that comes from the States? More than a breath of fresh air, I smell a charming whiff of a fart. There are people who have been working, composing, experimenting, studying music for years, busting their butt in the worst dives, and they don’t have a fraction of the visibility that these serial idiots do. The review didn’t drive me crazy either, especially since you mention a quick tracbaitrac like a quickie under the railway bridge, but it is still tracbaitrac. And it makes my scrotum turn. And that's not nice.

I had caught a glimpse of this tracbaitrac some time ago and promised myself to revisit it. I read everything carefully. The usual dilemma. Either you're 14/15 years old or you're yet another pathetic fake. It's touching to see how you bounce between an obvious and poorly concealed liking for Cesare and the desire to write something irresistibly (!?) sarcastic. The result, my friend, is pathetic. But now let's move on to serious matters. First of all, this tracbaitrac is as essential and definitive as a four-stroke revved up your ass at 14,000 RPM. The same sensation of freshness and liveliness. As for the rest, I have returned, after wonderful gypsy-like holidays, to rest my elbows on my windowsill. The shit is still there, flowing placidly and inexorably. And I missed you. God, how I missed you.