Gatto Ciliegia Contro Il Grande Freddo
#2

“I do not ask for clemency for this review. Not out of presumption (I wouldn't know where to take it from or what to lean it on). I take full responsibility. It's the review I would have wanted, that would have been useful to me in my musical wanderings, like a missing stone between one riverbank and the other... though I don't even know where the banks are. Digressions (unnecessary?)”

It's not simple post rock.

Gatto ciliegia color with different shades. Different also the brushstrokes. They might resemble Sigur Ros if they had grown up on the streets and squares of some of our cities.

Two twin brothers separated at birth and raised by different mothers. Under different suns. One scraping his knees behind a ball, another on vast meadows whose end you cannot see. Both, however, striving towards a horizon. If someone said that their subsequent "l'Irreparable" was not essential, this work might be in the reconstitution of a completely abstract musical journey however.
A rock, a support as already mentioned, to step across a stream in a walk without a destination. The atmospheres here are
more
rarefied than the subsequent album. More intimate. Keyboards, electric and acoustic guitars (especially) that intertwine in light arpeggios, almost fading away. Describing an atmosphere is not easy, and that's what the Turin trio has musically done mixing melodies and "seasonings" with moderation and wisdom so much that it's no longer clear which is which and everything becomes essential to convey a sensation.

A non-secret recipe but for all diners. Each track is a story unto itself, well blended and self-revealing. The album breathes the air of home, glimpses of common life, common anxieties. (Only after writing this I read that the CD was conceived and recorded at home). Each track is highly evocative and indeed, the titles help us make sense of a stream of images that bombard the listener with memories. A melancholy capable of making you smile as a listener, more disturbing if you are the narrator.

I haven't read it, but I imagine it recorded, conceived, invented in that warm May awakening that here for us holds poetry and smells of that scent that makes you smile Sunset trip.