Ghost Animal
Summertime In Heaven

Review of Garagisti Zozzoni (so Geb is happy).

In the end, I wonder how people can listen to Oasis. Damn, I know I'm asking rhetorical questions. But I want to try to understand why. In the end, it's clear: clean sound, presumably messy life, engineered melodies, and bravado to the max. As if Stone Roses were the ones to whom a hypocritical homage must be paid just to show that they are recognized for something. Then I also wonder why it was determined that a stupid rock like a diamond should have a value that when you lose it, you immediately think of those thousands of euros you could have turned into dust at the same price and when it was all over you wouldn't - logically - have batted an eyelid. Damn, I got lost. I mean, why is a stone worth so much and makes you dream while an album like this is worth nothing? It's equally precious, you have to go and search for it just like nuggets, you can't help but gift it to your sensory bodily activity to send it into rapture. A diamond reflects light. This album radiates it.

It's practically like taking certain Beatles, locking them in a garage and reverberating them properly. It's easy to talk about etherism, dreaminess, dreams. There are some delicacies that strike right at the exact intersection of atriums and ventricles because they combine those melancholies that, for example, often characterize my Septembers, with that feeble sun beating down on the sea foam dried up by the shoreline, with those evenings that you know will soon be cold in every sense, with that bewitching decay of a city center immobile at the turn of the 20th century. And so comes into play a dying summer, warm, the fear of losing it, the pang of the end of another positive cycle. Here, surf intertwines with shoegaze creating acrobatics that dig their claws into cardiac muscle tissue without pity for that melancholy generated by the musical formula itself. The pallor of this music, its transfiguration of joy into a cage of melancholy, lives like impertinent rhetorical figures within an ambiguous and contradictory text. As if someone wrote "I'm happy because I'm sad". This is how I interpret this album, which is capable of literally scooping up teaspoons of Britpop, '60s, and alternative rock and sprinkling them in this amalgam successful for its indefiniteness and the sense of bewilderment caused by a sound built like a lava ball incandescent inside and cold outside.

Of the things I've listened to, certainly one of the best albums of the past year, one of those I'll make sure to have as soon as possible because missing it would be like losing the chance I had, to meet that enchanting and slender Russian pianist who played only for me for forty minutes and with whom I was unable to string four words together, I was so vaporized. Now I always remember her beautiful beyond all beauty, without precise contours, like the cover of Loveless.

And meanwhile, the reverberations continue wherever I go.