The Punisher

DeRank ™: 1,08

DeAge™ : 7571 days • Here since 23 september 2005

Joe Cassano Dio Lodato

31 may 06

Voto:

...and we are still around Mondo Marcio and his lovely company. Nothing is created, nothing is destroyed, everything is transformed! (rest in peace...). A heartfelt and moving review (perhaps aided by the specter of death which always makes everything more intense and real...)

Giorgio Gaber La Libertà

31 may 06

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maybe you’re right santi_b and I admire the strength and stubbornness of your 20s!! I’m more than double your age and all I have left are CRAZY ideas and a character (Punny) to whom I’m emotionally attached who has WAY more courage than the REAL me and says things that I wouldn’t have the courage to say now. I care about you (damn it, I’m getting soft puttanacciatrijazzainfame!!!)

Paco de Lucía, Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin Friday Night In San Francisco

31 may 06

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I don't agree, Sexy. This isn't a "hooker" review, done like this, sorry, huh?!

Max Pezzali TuttoMax

31 may 06

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Instead of playing ghost here, why don’t you authenticate and send each other these beautiful and profound reflections on living, loving, and dying in private?! Thank you .-)))

Radiohead OK Computer

31 may 06

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Really ajeje, 5 to Radiohead, 3 to the latest Eels, without a doubt: blindfolded, with my hand on fire and my scrotum on an anvil at the mercy of anyone. :-)))

David Gilmour On An Island

31 may 06

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mhh

David Gilmour On An Island

31 may 06

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Sneaky review for an absolutely mediocre and workmanlike album (personal opinion, huh?!). I was about to write one myself, but there are already too many... ugh.

Paco de Lucía, Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin Friday Night In San Francisco

31 may 06

Voto:

Ors-U' dis-lessico SF(ascia) si -aus_culti isTO discQette Ke, if SHE could, BAD¤ N-o-n f@cERE :-)))

Paco de Lucía, Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin Friday Night In San Francisco

31 may 06

Voto:

emptiness, silences, inscrutable crevices are counted among the now stale lists of indigenous reviews like frenzied yet placid moths tangled in the underbrush of futile thoughts. They race on clouds of therapeutic and unhealthy spasms. Like the musicality that travels at zero degrees. Celsius. Milligrades. I've lost count and even the ultimate meaning. Never. Come on. Immense.