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Rating: “You bastard. You piece of shit. Go pick olives, bastard!”
Enlightenment. “Go pick olives, bastard”.
I try to envision my redemption while the fling lines up her curses and crucifies me. What the hell do you want to do, you idiot. You wanted it, and now you keep it, love was never talked about. And if you think I did, you were drunk. Okay, I got you drunk, but in the meantime, I screwed you in every sense. What do you want to do about it.
So, oh there it is. “Go pick olives.” It could be an interesting self-business solution because agriculture is still here, but there's a lack of hands. Only that I'm a mind and therefore I think. And while I get scratched and hear “I want to spend all the money you have on medicine!” I stumble upon the thought that, deep down, I am truly a cheerful gardener. I really have a passion, I think while dodging a random punch and enduring an unflinching “Oh if only you had drowned at your mother's birth!!!”. In short, it's clear the girl had cobwebs and is really shaken within her ignorant spirit preserved under passive conservatism. And ignorant.
While the slaps start to fly, I think about how not to take this moment seriously and let this dreadfully boring (but hopefully gratifying for her, to avoid a second episode) humiliation pass. I have a face like an ass. That's why they fall for it ;) Oh, if they fall for it!
Immersed as a chicken in the middle of an anarchic henhouse full of bitches, I think I should move from beasts to plants. I'd be cool. Under the sun with a pitchfork, sweaty, drinking light coke that drips on my earth-dirty chest. Then a fixed gaze into the camera and simply a horrifying burp. A perfect farmer justifying why arms like mine are stolen from agriculture.
Speaking of arms justly taken from agricultural machinery, I could, therefore, twin with Los Campesinos! who, given the physical proximity (more than cultural and musical) with Broken Social Scene, are surely not swines like me, but they don't have all their screws tight. A field party with their music would be really nice. Sure, under exhilarating sprays and exhales of pesticides (never said I wanted to go organic) because seriousness, in these cases, should only be spoken of concerning a booger war instigated by me against them all.
You get it, right? That these are big rowdy bunch, carefree rogues from Wales who hate the prince (of Wales). And I, as a fresh southern Italian, think I'd bond well with a Welshman. Even linguistically. “Mate, give me a hand with this shit pile, will you?” And he “aberythhwyyxx, whyttreddiethth”. Not understanding a damn thing, we'd get along anyway. Luckily, though, ours sing in very understandable English with that posh, round pronunciation of someone who wants to make you feel it's 100% Brit. Different, therefore, from the Canadian mentors although there are some actual points of contact: a bunch of folks composing the group and the structure and arrangements of some tracks very similar (the album is also produced by David Newfeld of BSS). But these are those annoying little brothers, snotty and irksome like little mosquitoes, that assault your balls clinging to the ropes hanging there, one by one. And so, you either let yourself be caught or tell them to get lost. There are no middle ways because the middle way is really narrow, and I'm already in it. Three to a preview of the first full-length (which is worth something more, two or three sesterces) because this is a bunch of songs with interesting ideas taken not too seriously. These little farmers have a defect (speaking of which, some might like farm girls) their not taking themselves seriously is kind of a trademark that, unfortunately, reverberates on all their works, distracting attention from listening. I was saying three also because, despite being teenagers in the pimple state, they make you understand they know how to do it with undaunted expertise and really wonderful enthusiasm. But precisely because of this, you have to whack them on the teeth and not let them feel that they have arrived. Perhaps this is also another flaw of the EP in question and the following one. Seeing them, between videos and live appearances, although they have put very little stuff on the market, they already seem to have arrived. But where are they going? Who do they think they are? Easy, guys, easy.
Owing something in sound and verve to Manic Street Preachers (fellow-countrymen, if I'm not mistaken) – as I owe honor to this damned whore who now broke me – the little farmers reach the destination, but then don't return. In the sense that the feedback gets a bit lost. Perhaps they have been pumped up a little too much, and they should indeed know that, for example, pumped tomatoes are beautiful outside and peeled inside. In the sense, they have no hairs, the experience.
In the end, it is very, very fun music well played but not at all suited for closed spaces: it needs the right situation, the mess, the high volume, the high. Or outdoors, in a field, which after a few hours would be full of strange marks that, seen from above, would make a winking smiley.
The bitch finished observing me as I meanwhile had really gone off in the thought of the Welsh farm boys, simulating a stupid stupid riff and stomping to avoid her. “Strum this, and here I should ring a church bellllll!”. Of course, now for a scrap of honor, I should also die. Give me back the room. Ah, there it is. A fixed gaze at the center and, simply, a horrifying burp.
Tracklist
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