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Rating: The first album wasn't bad. A gust of anger placed in a "young" singer-songwriter context and a bit indie-punkish. Evasive lyrics. Derivative. Intimate and full of references to Brondi's personal experiences. But the feeling I had, listening to it after a few times, was that of an association with Manuel Agnelli of Afterhours: shooting wildly at flocks of birds, sure that "I'll hit at least one." A lot of depression.
This second work does not differ from the previous one by a comma. Like a pile of junk on which we have invested our desires for disappearance. It could have moved on its own, perhaps even vanished. Disappear forever. But it stayed there. It has always been there and has always been the same. An album I rejected after just three tracks. Something that hadn't happened to me in years.
"For now, we will call it happiness". But who are we? What we hear is nothing but (now) the glorification of a self-reference that has become structural, without content. A container in which to jot down random thoughts, contemptuous of a single will oriented towards annoyance. A steamroller with starting problems that slowly crosses the highway of our balls.
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