Julian Cope
Droolian

“Nothing more than a collection of demos and oddities” so said, at the dawn of time, the insensitive scribe.

And it is certainly so. Only there is a problem...

And the problem is that what the insensitive scribe saw as nonsense is for me instead the highest virtue.

Because here Droolian, that is, that junkie Julian, drinks from the sacred Barrettian fountain, refreshing himself with golden and placid clumsiness,

And he adds his very personal psychedelic trifles... and here and there a vaguely kraut attitude, a touch of Faust, mind you...

The best is given by certain trivial pop pieces carried to paradise who knows how, maybe going overdrive, maybe missing the unmissable...

Or, perhaps, being Julian Cope.

Please dodge cold reason, dodge the principle of non-contradiction, for what seems silly is often intelligence in disguise.

And anyway, it starts with a toy harpsichord, continues with some avant-garde snippets for a very drugged narration voice... and the bouncy pop we mentioned, each time with a different idea (there are so many rides at the amusement park!!!!)... and ballads for sad superheroes... and all the tricks to make the feet lift, just a little, from the ground...

Because Julian Cope here is the busker of the most hidden street of the village you will never go to even if you were born there...

Ah gentlemen, I must warn you that this is an album that no one likes. And even the cultists of Julian dismiss it in a few lines.

It may also be that, each having their own vaporousness, this is suitable only for mine. And that village we mentioned, well, maybe only I was truly born there...

But you, try it... maybe you will say something like that of that other scribe, “shambles of bad faded acid”... maybe you will tell me to go to hell...

But give it a chance...

And, as I write while listening, I realize that this album (with a puppy) has another tutelary deity, namely Mr. Kevin Ayers, one of the fabulous princes of Canterbury...

In short (Barrett, Ayers, the kraut), at least the fathers aren’t bad at all...

Trallallà...