Guns And Roses
Use Your Illusion 1&2

Use your illusion, or the shit consumed by young people as if it were white truffle pulp...

But let's be historicists and go in order, so, what exactly happened? Street metal opened the sewer manhole, and what followed in the second half of the '90s did the rest. What I mean is that to be successful, it's enough to play shit. It doesn't matter what musical genre is proposed, what counts is that what is served on a silver platter to the pimpled youth has the consistency, color, smell, and taste of freshly crapped shit. Well, to be honest, every decade has had its fair share of shit passed off as pappardelle alla lepre or, alternatively, duck à l'orange, all prepared and cooked by Vissani. In fact, only the pimpled youths go around with souped-up scooters plastered with stickers of wasted addicts.

The most deleterious shit is the one that persists and is elevated to a myth. For example: the Guns And Roses. They started decently with Appetite for Destruction, which was thrilling, but then they wrecked a double album that literally induced vomiting like camphor, yet for some absurd reason, they succeeded.
It's hilarious: we're practically in 2005, right? So AXL Rose, who is the only original member left, has been trying for 15 years to write the new damn comeback album. Axl and his new merry company realized they couldn't carry on with the ditties they had accustomed their screaming fans to, with fireworks in their ovaries in the early '90s... and then? Well, they sat around a table, crunched some numbers, and decided to record an album that is roughly a halfway between Nickelback, Linkin Park & POD (according to the damn demos that yours truly listened to because reviews must be professional). What a huge pile of shit and what a pile of bullshit! Last night, sitting on the toilet, I was listening to Use Your Illusion and doing channel flipping (I have a TV in the bathroom) from one gossip news to another, Use Your Illusion was the perfect soundtrack: Studio Aperto, Flavia Vento, Ascanio, overheated Albanian pit bull assholes biting children, the damn son of Al-bar Parietti, Nathalie Caldocazzo, Paola Pene-go, Elisabetta Carnalis, or Analis, or fucking daughter of Cagnalis, Alena Sedere-va, Elenoire fucking wood, Maurizio Costanzino, Silvia go fuck yourself sidewalk journalist, and all with the priceless background of this double album.

Another news report on MTV, endlessly talking about the upcoming album of the reunited Guns and Roses, 15 years advertising this super damned album. Well, who ultra mega gives a total shit? There's always Smackdown at 7 pm on Italia 1, J.B.L!! John Cena look my face, you can see me. I need a 200-bar pressure washer shower. Then off to Cena because I'm hungry, but I puked all this dinner, and it's the Guns' fault and their so rebellious and scandalous lyrics, at one point AXL screams all excited "I want to fuck all the girls on Venice Beachhhh!!! I have a piece of meat that measures 35 cm!!!!" (obviously he was so high he mistook his forearm for his member), "do you want to lick some schoolgirl of my balls?"... just go fuck yourselves. Vic is more of a poet when he says that your mother (of the Guns huh) feeds on fly larvae that settle in platypus excrement.
These are as flashy no more than the guys who go to the Riviera in the summer.

And the braying of Axl which is now inconceivable, that aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuoooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, and Slash posing with legs spread (4 meters from one foot to the other) with a top hat on his head, flowing curly hair and bare chest, with the usual endless Page-style boasting, okay you studied blues from Stevie Ray Vaughan and Steve Vai you asshole, tough and streetwise street male, but Vic is disgusted by these inconceivable poses, Vic is not a street chick like this group of bleached glamorous toxic waste from the drinking Los Angeles, and all the gawky kids scattered around the world saying in ecstasy: "Testaccio che fa n'assoro che je s'intorcineno li diti, 'tacci sua", "Lipton Ace Tea, for me number one", and on with another solo, always endless, always more overdone, and what about Dylan when he found himself doing the cover of Knockin' on Heaven’s Door with these 5 idiots? "Play it Johnny Cash style” says Bob to Slash, and Slash who didn't even know how to follow Bob Dylan in his reckless antics, the master is the master dear Slash of my balls, oh no, because it's Izzy Stradlin the real genius of the group, who delights us with his overflowing hard rock visions: and let's hear those compositions in deca-syllables:
"Right Next Door to Hell" - AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! And to think these are serious... Folks, this is real heavy metal. You don’t even have a damn catalytic converter stuck up your ass, if those from the WWF knew this. What a sonic epilepsy. Genius of an Izzy "Dust N' Bones" - The titles say it all about the brain conditions of these garbage bags. They seem taken from a damn cartoon, believing themselves cowboys of the metropolis, these macho flashy guys. Songs for the first fourteen-years-old makeout sessions, I hear nothing else.
"Dead Horse - basically these idiots had started shitting out shit at full force, releasing a piece every fifteen minutes in those sessions, what fucking inspiration did they have to make a double album. Self-aware anyway, for goodness sake, credit where credit is due, they knew they were animals and declared it with pride in a track of this heap of shit. That is: they say it themselves in titles like “Back Off Bitch” "the return of the bitches" not me.
There’s even the tearjerker song “Don’t Cry”, and here there aren't even words to decree the disgust of Vic, your Lucignolo who guides you in this long night of the soul, with Four Roses and many makeouts from kids, because today we are all rebellious, and I am already a woman at 14 and make out with the friend of my best friend with the fullest wallet, because Lucignolo certainly doesn't hold back when it comes to showing the real truth of this mediocre and forever lost little Italy. Don’t cry ends, but only to make space for the second apotheosis of tears, the valley of the eden of the work, gone with the wind with Vivian Leigh: “The immense dramatic fart of all rock” (Vic Sorriso TM), or rather November Rain, a very sad episode in my life is linked to this piece: I was 18, it was Saturday night, and I was alone at home and the doorbell rings: a 13-year-old girl who was in love with me (she was the daughter of a friend of my mom), I didn't even let her in because I knew what she wanted from me, and I wasn't willing to end up with a latent pedophilia charge, so I said hi, but thinking back, after the fact, it would have been better to let her in because for what happened to me next I would have preferred to respond in court to an accusation of pedophilia: I didn't let her in I said, I went back to the living room and after a while I was jerking off to some hot stripper showing her shaved pussy on some damn private channel, all of a sudden the pussy disappears and is replaced by the video of "November Rain"... fuck, I had already reached the point of no return and I practically came with the face of that shit AXL Rose with red hair in that fucking wedding. Damn to this prototype of song-orchitis, but have you seen that wedding video? How long did it last, 18 minutes? How can you declare mental well-being to those who listen to this stuff draped with vain chills from high school first loves? Perhaps the most disgustingly trash and kitsch thing ever seen in video in the history of humanity.