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Rating: The lights of the power plant were turned on, he writes, on a too long and too blue afternoon as a project of denuclearized songwriting; and they completely and treacherously captivated me one June evening between lazily preparing for exams and overrated international football matches.
They hurled a gray world and a stubborn melancholy at me. I didn't shy away, mysteriously, nor did I ask myself how it happened, but the awareness carved itself out, slowly. There's something to clarify about what this guy sings. It's not Ferrara, Bologna, Milan, or some other place. It's not even Italy, or rather, it absolutely is Italy, and each of those places, but it’s not a physical place, not solely; it's the state of a generation. But even this isn't entirely correct. The lights of the power plant reflect the malaise of an age and a specific place, of a thousand specific places, and they are certainly social malaise, but also, above all, individual malaise, filtered through the soul, mind, vocal cords of one person, of a solitary and inimitable individual.
A crowd can sway, allow itself to be silently annihilated, find solace in various escapes, perhaps perfectly unconsciously. And there is nothing unifying in this, just a multitude of solitudes.
That doesn't look into its own days, doesn't transfigure reality, and doesn’t grasp the murky and sick beauty of the ring road, the gasometer, the lights of the power plant. It doesn’t dream of setting sunsets and poorly parked cars on fire, storming the skies, and being defeated and ending up on the news.
And not everyone loves, in this total, salvific way.
Few are saved.
I save myself, and I save myself with Vasco even as I drown in the lights of the power plant even when I am in the center of Rome (where everything shines, but the squares are empty, are mute, and fists are raised, yes, but to surrender) and I even sink into the faded grass of the San Paolo meadows, in the deafening silence of consciences, of the people I observe.
But I resurface and I am alive, and in the end, I grasp that ultimate and ineffable sensation of precarious harmony, and it seems to me that I see them, as I lift my hands from the handlebar, that I feel them
your hair,
it's understood, it's even evident in that photo,
they are bare wires,
they emit light, small charges of energy.
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Other reviews
By Blujules
A pure poetic flow made of cities, cities no one wants, the skies above industrial neighborhoods...
TOTAL POETRY IN MUSIC. Majakovskij without manifestos, a post-industrial Whitman singing asphalt instead of earth and anti-theft alarms in place of birdsongs.
By Kurtd
I believe that these people, after all, have left us something, what I can’t forgive you is the fact that you write shitty songs, nonsensical things that you pass off as poetry.
The first is that there are still people like me who you will never change their mind.
By Bert
The sounds this time are rich, hefty, connected, and well-structured.
From the desecrated beach, we can now look up to our portion of stars, searching for our story.
