There have already been many, too many words said about this album. I am one of the most assertive convincing ones about Mozza's second youth. Pardon, convinced assertors. That he lives in Rome, has Morricone arrange the strings, and finally admits that a man inflames his thighs, well, these are not fundamental things. Just as perhaps the music on these grooves is not entirely fundamental (there's still vinyl, for those who want it, and can).
But. There is always a but. There's the absolute perfection that only the (now) old Steven Patrick can distill in three minutes. There's that wonderfully incredible single. You have killed me. In the Rome of Pasolini and the beggars, of Visconti and Magnani. Too many circles closing. The total melancholy of happiness. Even when life changes. Very Smiths guitars, without a doubt. Killer chorus (indeed). Carver-esque synthesis in the verses for an author who is always more than prolix, even from the titles.
Being dazzled, I will adore this album, as I always have. I spent these last crumbs of lucidity to publicly declare my surrender. I've been out of the blessed adolescent sadness for (quite) a while. And yet. And yet. And yet this jerk always defeats me. Best English author for decades. Moody and unpleasant. You even went to live in the most symbolic place I know.
What can I say? You have killed me. Again.
(PS. I found some "piciu" scattered around the site. You are of the noble - bovine - Piedmontese breed?).
Morrissey has granted himself to the public with what in my opinion will be considered his most introspective and 'human' album.
The gloomy, grumpy and decadent Morrissey has left behind the years of his personal 'Cataraxia' and has given himself to others, but above all to himself.
The work is really bland with a rosary of useless songs photocopied one over the other.
In many cases, silence is golden, and rather than churning out series of records that add nothing, often taking away, it would be better to remain silent in anticipation of better times.