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Rating: There are those who dance the polka and those who dance the mazurka…
But those who have seen things dance with a broom: the crazy ones, the drunks, the hopeless fools...
Well, these Green Fingers LTD are no exception.
They’re definitely the worst kind of riffraff, but they saved me from psych folk-induced torpor, an affliction I had considered almost incurable by now...
Maybe it's because the post-punk kid in me occasionally demands his crumb.
Maybe it's because somewhere I read: “gli attori del teatro dell’assurdo di Tbilisi dopo peripezie innumerevoli han dato alla luce il loro primo disco”—words, you'll agree, that are hard to resist…
And then, these guys are Georgian like that number seven who played for Napoli and always got past his man. Besides, he's still getting past defenders now, even after betraying the club...
And, as everyone knows, those who dribble are even better than the number ten. And man, can these guys dribble!
The know-it-alls label them as egg punk, a definition that, yes, sounds promising, but really, what the heck does it mean? Fortunately, in these modern times, answers come quickly!
And right away I’m told that egg punk is “a micro-genre characterized by a lo-fi style, frantic rhythms, surreal or satirical lyrics, and extensive use of cheap synths”—words that indeed describe this little gem quite well...
Add a big gruff bear-like voice, and the fact that in fifteen minutes—that’s the length of this mini album—I jumped out of my seat three times…
Okay, it's also true that sometimes the big voice drowns out the delightful ramshackle mess of the sounds, but, well, I’d say it doesn’t really matter…
Then, of course, these are the kind of folks who, loving the world too much, spit on it. But honestly, don’t you do the same?
Trallallà…
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