F.S. Blumm
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THE REVIEW

A child sleeping in a stroller. A flower that wasn't there yesterday. Or maybe it was, who knows.
A couple of teenagers holding hands. A girl who closes her eyes and releases a smile between her head and the window before the green light. The first kiss. The first time. She asks you with her eyes "and tomorrow?" and you silently point her to the sunset.
The pigtails in the wind of the little girl chasing the ball. A breeze, the kind that makes you lie down on a bench and close your eyes.
A pigeon being chased by the uncertain balance of a two-legged diaper that moves clumsily. Boom, fallen.
Looking over there. Breathing in all the love in the world. Writing something to someone, your own, by hand. So they can feel that it's yours and only yours.
The old man who turns slowly and can't find his other half's hand for a second.
Who's missing? David Grubbs! No, David Grubbs is there too, in the last track, the only one sung.

More than an album, a spell.

P.S. to the bastardonidentro of which this fabulous site is teeming: don't make fun of me, I'm neither madly in love nor in a good period, that makes me write these things... it's all thanks to Mr. Blumm, that's all. And anyway, I always think, the wheel keeps turning...