Ninive & Los Paranoias
Osti

THE REVIEW

This is not an album.

This is how Ninive titled their first album, released in the almost distant 2006.

This is not a review, I title today.

By choice and by necessity. By choice to put aside the guise of someone who has understood everything about what he writes. And by necessity of an album impossible to review. Because these are thirteen tracks, without genre, without definition, without tabulation.

Osti is the secondborn of the Ninive family, a duo from the Legnano area, supported during its creation by the three Los Paranoias. A dozen hands in all, making brass and reeds spit in quantity, intertwining six, sometimes twelve, eighteen, nineteen, or twenty or more iron strings of all kinds and which, in every way, cut through the air. The vocal ones, perhaps, are even more. And they can be bleating and tapestry, the chorus of Alcoholics Anonymous and stage, silence and cry of appeal to existence. An album without weight distribution, but never random material. Mixing and arrangements fluctuate from the pitiful to the brilliant, just like the sounds, effects, lyrics, and the rest.

An album that knows how to slip into your head, like a tank with clawed tracks, and leave as the moon knows how to leave. But since any home birth (home recording – editor's note) is not without the risk of complications, there are defects, and not a few. However, he who is born defective into a world full of defects is born perfect, born fitting. Try to open that door that tries to contain the vomit, and beneath all the flowers of the world that will sooner or later become dry, all the trees in the world that will sooner or later fall, the children in cemeteries, the secrets that no one will ever know, real death, unremembered, the first day of winter, a supreme being corrected with rum, and try to hear what music comes through.

It's another world, they are other worlds, screaming, shouting, at best screeching: they are the worlds we are building, ones we will never see because they are far, but those of whose germs we are full – while we love, hate, or just live – the worlds that will have lost hope of time, wind, alternative, because they have forgotten it and because they no longer need it. Worlds left on the dashboard of a car parked under the August sun. Not necessarily black, and not necessarily ugly.

Do not try to understand it, this album here, it is not required.

You carry it with you.

Just open the door of discomfort: maybe Ninive are playing, inside.