Gorillaz
Plastic Beach

Of course, it's been roughly since nineteen sixty-seven—i.e., since the pompous release of the whimsical Band of the Lonely Hearts Club of Sergeant Pepper—that the overused phrase concept album has thoroughly grated on our nerves [scilicet annoyed us greatly].

Furthermore, even the makeshift band itself is a concept band, something that deserves reporting to the high priests (or the other bald ones?) of [Fred] good taste, whose existence, doubted by some fools, is proven ipso facto by the proper makeup of the sky, the mosquitoes that suck blood, the flies that break boxes, the modest blooming of fragrant little flowers just half an hour before the hailstorm that knocks them down and turns them into a grayish mush.

In short, the world may be an annoying cauldron, but we, as borlotti beans and Savoy cabbages that we undoubtedly are, might just come to terms with it, swimming around in the broth.

All this to say: personally, today and only today, I feel like giving this little disc five stars out of five.

Am I completely and utterly nuts? Perhaps. Definitely.

But pop, when it works, it works and does what it's supposed to do. Now, a question naturally arises: what is [so-called] pop music supposed to do? It should accompany life, peacefully add color to it.

And this album succeeds, oh yes it does, because it's like a multicolored little necklace, made of numerous beads or candies with holes, that together jingle and each individually dyes the tongue and the day with artificial flavoring sweet delights.

[here we need a sparkling and philologically impeccable trackbytrack]

And then (to state the obvious) everyone knows that behind simplicity, there's always complexity, and behind these finely crafted and catchy songs, these little jewels made of strings of plastic beads, these perfect trinkets, there is some serious sleeve-rolling effort.

But we pretend to ignore all this, and we blissfully suck on these colorful candies, alright.