Miles Kane
Coup De Grace

I like everything about Miles. Everything, but one thing in particular: his instrument, nobody plays it like he does. Few geniuses have matched his creative acumen, his ability to turn the movement of the soul into a histrionic and sweet harmony, rust and honey, decay and cream.

Miles is still three steps ahead of every colleague, ahead of contemporary times. In the elegance of his suit, his demeanor, his innate charisma, the lament of his crying instrument, Miles moves, straight to the heart.

From the days of the first bands, the smoky cellars, Miles has come a long way: now he is there, sought out by everyone, even by the Italians looking for a crumb of his talent - see the recent feat with Zucchero Fornaciari.

Everything about his art is striking. A creative tension that, with each passing day, chisels with the scalpel of melancholy on his tough face of a sad and noble-spirited Eritrean. Now, I will put on this record for the first time, which, among the volumes of his vast discography, has always eluded me.

And now I wonder, when will it begin? It's been 10 minutes and I only hear some annoying music, that rather than the psychedelic blend of In A Silent Way reminds me of a brit-trash meatloaf from a suburban discount store. And the trumpet, where is it?

Ah, damn it, it's not the jazz guy: it's Miles Kane. Oh well, this stuff is bloody terrible.