My Bloody Valentine
M B V

Nothing new under the light of the sun. What sun, then. The little light there is today I have managed to provide myself, struggling to bring it out from within, and this album has extracted it, for which the comments are already pouring in, "eh, but they haven't changed at all, they're just like twenty years ago." Indeed, they're just like twenty years ago. I am like twenty years ago too, except that unlike then, today I start reckoning with age (only with age, as there's no money, I always prefer payment in kind) and I more easily indulge in melancholy. They, on the other hand, are just like twenty years ago, with a gentle yet heavy blow on the stubborn and proud layer of dust, the kind of dust that makes an object unique, a fetish, a reward for so many struggles in life. A breath, in the end, that changes nothing and makes nothing change.

This Sunday afternoon will remain invaluable, where, like some deity, I indulged in horizontal bodily laziness on the sofa, just to let the brain burn more sugars. I had to listen to this album. I wanted to be told a new story, that had the taste of old, that tasted like me, that tasted like each of us the first time we listened to the purple wonders, the gutted songs of Loveless, asking ourselves what that music so shredded, ethereal, distorted, limping, cacophonic, sweet, dreamy, loving, personal in the most intimate sense of the word, could ever be. I'm sure you remember that moment. To me (and I believe to you too), it seemed like someone had understood me, indeed, it seemed like someone was able to tell my story better than I could have. From that point on, nothing. I've felt that sensation only once. It shook me a lot, to be honest, it gave me a sensation of inner ecstasy greater than the first time I encountered a woman.

I knew what I was getting into today. It was like a "where were we?" And indeed, we left off right there, the story seems to resume exactly where it stopped. It tastes like that first drag of a Sunday cigarette, the one that brings back everything you've consumed and absorbed the night before. And it unleashes within you primitive and ancestral instincts, direct and immediate yet also stroboscopic: it makes your heart ache thinking about how good you felt; it makes it hard thinking about the weekly infatuations; it kills you a little, just a little, enveloping you in spleen; it doesn't finish you nor does it ever end, prolonging for its entire duration this state of trance with heavy eyelids that, however, refuse to close and, as only the best drugs know how to do, it allows you to take a look at yourself from all perspectives and knows how to be listened to/injected again and again. One last reflection. Everything that has passed through this musical and human genre over these years stands several notches below. In some cases, it entertained me a lot. But there are masters from whom the disciples will never fully learn, simply because there were never any lessons. There are alchemies possible only between certain (un)determined individuals living on the globe. Loveless is unique and unrepeatable for everyone. It could only continue here, giving us, I believe, a slightly more cunning aspect of itself.

Nothing more, nothing less than shoegaze. Nothing more, nothing less than My Bloody Valentine. So much stuff, so much happiness, so many tears of joy.