Grandaddy
Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla

The most famous scruffy beards of American alternative rock are back, and they do so with an excellent mix of deep distortions, delicate dreamlike melodies, and screams of computers tortured to death by a low fidelity more cynical than ever.
Truly a great sonic spectacle.

When in 2000 someone dared to describe "The Sophtware Slump" as the true sequel to "Ok Computer", many turned up their noses. I didn't express an opinion, standing there with my mouth open in front of the beauty of a single (not exactly radio-friendly) like "He's Simple He's Dumb He's The Pilot". Today, in hindsight, one must recognize the journalist who wrote those few but weighty words as having a certain kernel of truth. Currently, indeed, Grandaddy probably represents what Thom Yorke and company "would have been" after 1997 if only they had decided to continue on a more "earthly" sonic path, not venturing into the more experimental pathway of electronics. Thus, after the cleaner, more accessible, and slightly monotonous pop of "Sumday," which hinted at a slight decline in form, the Californian "grandaddies" return to the enigmatic, robotic, romantic, and fascinating atmospheres of their early millennium concept.

"Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla" is an EP composed of seven tracks and anticipates the release of an album (likely in 2006) that, as things stand, will depart from the excellent "sound premises" contained in this production signed by V2 Records.

"Pull The Curtains," the track that opens the record, is a striking song and best reflects the global characteristics of the work, which turns out to be among the best produced in the entire discography of the Modesto band: distorted and simple riffs, in full grunge style, hints of captivating electronics, and quasi-idiotic noises. 70% Nirvana, 20% New Order, 10% 1980s video games (damn Pacman! You owe me a mountain of 200-lire coins!!!). The melodies of the "battered pianos" at the edge of absurdity and mental dissonance that characterized a critically acclaimed album like "Under The Western Freeway" have taken a qualitative leap and support the weight of an entire track. In fact, thanks to a dreamy piano, excellent minimalist Beatles-style songs ("F**k The Valley Fudge") emerge, surrounded as always by not easily identifiable otherworldly background noises. From the low-quality recording of some tracks shines through the often-declared love for bands like Pavement and Pixies: "Florida" has in its distortions all the sonic drunkenness of a party ending in a brawl (never before had Jason Lytle screamed so much in a track) and in the melody preceding the chorus all the carefree joy of a sunny Sunday in the countryside. The acoustic guitars that close Todd Zilla's diary leave a dream in the head and a bitter taste in the mouth: it's impossible to be satisfied with just seven excerpts if the entire "book" could probably be even more fascinating.