Biagio Antonacci

If we were in 1915, this festival singer of sausages, or even worse, from a Neapolitan district, would have been committed for life—cacophony, deafening noise, horror, shit pouring out of the sewage pipes and flooding the city. A pumped-up, tacky ex-fake rocker with long hair who for 30 years has been destroying our testicles with syrupy, laxative pop crap for hairdressers.