Federale
The Blood Flowed Like Wine

THE REVIEW

35 caliber revolvers aimed from across the Channel
Cinema is both "of" and "the" frontier.

Through the hands of Collin Henga, self-confessed of the Brian Jonestown massacre, they were born in 2004 from the dust of the "Cocaine Unicorn". Wordplays are abundant.
Along the way, people from the folk rock scene joined, along with a desperate and as yet unknown Colin Sheridan escaping from the dream pop environment.

If the frontier and Calibro35 as cardinal points weren't enough, a tombstone would fall from the sky as dead weight, and the border of the sky delimited by the sand line would fill with the name Morricone. Yes: he’s alive; but it’s the frontier, and the names of the frontier, just to be safe, are all on the tombstones.
Is there more? Yes, a lot, but Morricone, as naturally as it should be, takes everything and brings it home. Of the "much else" that remains, you really have little left at the end of the meal.

Between one spaghetti and another, randomly, rarely and almost treacherously, a song.

Calibro35 from across the Channel? Let's not kid ourselves: a joke full of fillers arrived at the third chapter. The ability the calibers have to evoke the cobblestones is something one can only dream of: I placed the tombstones, but upon closer listening, they are more mine than theirs.
It’s stuff you play in the car when others are sleeping, but in the quiver of its uselessness, it holds two or three good arrows.