Marlene Kuntz
Bianco Sporco

Pretending to be a poet doesn't make Cristiano Godano a poet.
I remember him, before a Nick Cave concert in Mantua, standing in front of the entire audience, already seated, pretending to choose a decent seat with exclamations like: "Ah that one? But then what do I do if I have to give him the CD..." The year was 1999.
A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, I believe, but in Cristiano Godano's mind, known to his loyal fans as Guendalino, the idea of being Nick Cave has not faded away.

Look at the "skin" he wears to make sense of it... listen to the overly pretentious lyrics with vaguely suggestive titles like "La lira di Orfeo"... does anything come to mind?
"I am your poet..." he sings, or rather, screams our Guendalino, producing only boredom and annoyance in me.

But how is it possible that no original artist is born in Italy... I mean totally original and not always indebted to this or that guardian spirit. A bit like the disgusting Folco Orselli, I don't know if you've ever heard of him, a squalid imitator of Tom Waits beyond the limit of plagiarism... worse than Capossela, who should pay royalties for the "genius" ideas in his cheap CDs.
Of course, some are saved... but who really rocks the world for originality and innovation? I mean... among quality indie groups, anglophone countries, and not only, have produced incredible phenomena and us? The Afterhours, which should represent the top of Italian rock.
Of course, they are good, but there is always missing, and you can't deny it unless you're deaf, that something extra... the spark of genius or even disgust that makes a work passable and listenable to essential and innovative.
And the lyrics say a lot... they are a jumble of Baudelaireisms from eighteen-year-olds playing heroin-chic without having ever done the aforementioned substance: better for their health and worse for our ears.

To talk about suffering and be noose-around-the-neck songwriters you have to live, live intensely like many of those we love, and I'm not going to name names, have done, risking their own skin to then evolve, and perhaps become peaceful and sweet songwriters.
These well-bred boys, even if they wear sharp "butcher's broom" black shoes and pinstripe suits, will never be like the incendiaries of twenty-five years ago, who turned Europe and the musical horizons of the time upside down.
So the album slips away among some pleasant songs, catchy choruses, and violins placed just where there's a guaranteed effect, where mom and dad are happy and we all think: "Oh but how good... how beautiful".
Let's be honest: Italy, when it comes to rock, is in a horribly bad state, and also for this reason, it will forever have its yoke of various and terrifying festivals: the symbol of the sappy, mafioso, backward, and ignorant soul of this decaying peninsula, shame of the world, and vassal of donkeys.