Max Pezzali
Time Out

I scribble reviews and dream of Uranus, up there, eternal, inviolable, fleeting. "The world is yours," Aladdin gushed, and we live in an incongruous time where dreams never align with desires. Max Nazionale knows this well, as he searches for an America that perhaps no longer exists and takes a break but proudly warns us that he'll be back soon. Oibò, we await him.

What a shame, damn it, the little disc is exactly that. Few inspired lyrics of ours and music always too fashionable and, ultimately, lacking authenticity. Max from Pavia has lost his touch; his stories, drunk on booming banality of country, and the bar, and the motorcycle, and the nonsense clash with the old man he was already during the disc I'm gallantly talking about. His provincial adventures are now overused, and there's nothing interesting to save.

Brave Pezzali, proud bard of a time whipped by strokes of metaphorical temporal saber, reduced to singing "You're fantastic," still a woman, strong like rock'n'roll. Shameful fantasy. That silhouette of Maximo was never a fantastic singer, but we'd like to have Spider-Man back, preferably alive, and not such operettas only good for filling one's ego and disgusting fans. One thing must be said, and with strength. More than ten years have passed since such trifles, and the sly fox, albeit not very sharp and quite vain, Max has produced nothing better, now neither north nor south nor west nor east can he, like a typical water diviner, turn, from whichever point you look at it there's no inspiration left, indeed, time out.