Posturing as a poet does not make Cristiano Godano a poet. I remember it vividly, before a Nick Cave concert in Mantova, standing in front of the entire audience, already seated, pretending to choose a decent spot with exclamations like: "Oh, that one? But what if I have to give him the CD...". It was the year 1999. A lot of water has passed under the bridges since then, I believe, but in Cristiano Godano's mind, affectionately called Guendalino by his staunch followers, the idea of being Nick Cave has not faded.
Take a look at the "muta" he wears to understand... listen to the excessively pretentious lyrics with vaguely allusive titles like "La lira di Orfeo"... does anything come to mind? "I am your poet..." sings, or rather shrieks our Guendolino, producing in me only boredom and annoyance.
But how is it possible that no original artist has emerged in Italy... I mean completely original and not always indebted to this or that guiding deity? A bit like the disgusting Folco Orselli, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him, a pathetic imitator of Tom Waits to the point of plagiarism... worse than Capossela, who should pay royalties for the "brilliant" ideas in his two-lira trash CDs. Of course, some manage to save themselves... but who really makes waves for originality and innovation? I mean... among quality indie groups, English-speaking countries, and beyond, have produced incredible phenomena, and we? The Afterhours, who are supposed to represent the pinnacle of Italian rock. They’re certainly good, but there is always something missing, and you can't deny it unless you're deaf, that little extra something... the spark of genius or even of disgust that transforms a work from passable and listenable to essential and innovative.
And the lyrics say a lot... they are a muddle of Baudelairean themes from eighteen-year-olds playing at heroin-chic without ever having done the aforementioned substance: better for their health and worse for our ears.
To talk about suffering and to be songwriters with a noose around their necks, one must live, live intensely like many of those we love, and I won’t name names, who have taken risks on their own skin only to evolve, and perhaps become peaceful and sweet singer-songwriters. These well-off kids, even if they wear pointy "pungitopo" black shoes and pinstriped suits, will never be like the firebrands of twenty-five years ago, who shook Europe and the musical prospects of the time.
Thus, the album slides by with some pleasant songs, catchy choruses, and violins strategically placed just where the effect is guaranteed, where mommy and daddy are happy, and we all think: "Oh, how talented... how lovely." Let’s face it: Italy, when it comes to rock, is in a horrendously bad state and for this reason it will forever bear its burden of various and terrifying Festivals: the symbol of the syrupy and mafia-like retriever and ignorant soul of this decaying peninsula, the shame of the world and vassal of fools.
