Kite Party
Baseball Season

Distant sirens.

A skateboard slowly rolls off a ramp illuminated by the fiery sunset. Around, nothingness. An axe stuck in a log emerges from the snow. Moments. “Can you do a triple kick?” That axe has been there since it happened. “Time to learn serious tricks and get out of this shithole.”
The only fault of the sons is being sons of their fathers. They didn’t say a word to each other. The door, the light, 'click’. The skateboard in pieces at the foot of the bed. There’s a space and a time in which dreams collide with reality.
The stain spreads slowly, the carpet partially absorbs it. On the screen, the game he loved to follow. The sharpest splinter pierces his neck.

I should have dedicated my fingertips to Baseball Season long ago. It’s an album full of feigned suggestions and regret for emotions never felt. For teenagers who grew up too much or adults who grew up too little. Does it make a difference?
The melodic rock (or emo or indierock, as you like) of Kite Party conveys a sincere sense of escape. It succeeds by expanding the sound and covering it with a layer of grime that carries with it old grudges. The rest is done by a voice as decisive as a slap, guitars that speak for themselves, and a vibrant rhythm section. It's the only record I would recommend to an angry 15-year-old.
In its small way, it's a special album; it poorly conceals melancholy and expresses anger even worse. What emerges are 30 minutes in which one breathes freedom, the responsibility of being oneself. Whether as adults or teenagers, it’s up to you to decide that when you listen.

You can especially hear the insights of the Walkmen, at times even the mild torpor of the Grandaddy. There are splendid songs in a continuous ebb and flow of moods and speeds; the carousel of “Welcome to Miami”, the dark (and damn beautiful) “Hightower”, the gentle rocking of “Jaws of life”, just to name a couple.
Baseball Season is ageless, without preconceptions, played with the sick heart of someone who is not stingy with emotions. It will always be able to give the same suggestions and images as new, the same vitality cloaked in black smoke. 

I wrote it yesterday and now I hear on the radio that a seventeen-year-old burned his girlfriend alive. Adolescence fucks up the brain; it's the age that will remain inside us for a lifetime, for better or worse, at least I am quite obsessed with the idea.