Neil Young & Crazy Horse
Greendale

THE REVIEW

I mean, how is it possible that a singer-songwriter with such a "significant" and historic past like this one comes out in 2003 with such a dull and lifeless album like this? An album born "tired," lacking in punch, with the same monotonous rhythm, the usual verse-chorus-verse bridges, where compared to it, Guccini's locomotive sounds like Frank Zappa.

Someone like Nanni Moretti might say, "no, you see, it's the metaphor of the ever-unchanging American province that you don't understand..." or "and then there's this thing about the town (Greendale, precisely) that doesn't exist but ultimately it's the town everyone carries inside them..." again the Nanni: "it's in the boredom and repetitiveness that it draws artistic energy and blah blah blah." Guys, let's cut to the chase, and let me tell you: a dreadfully boring album, in fact, even more. An album bought from the Moroccans for four euros on the beach (sometimes they are even a godsend!) and immediately given to a friend of mine who still wears an army jacket.
Perhaps the lyrics, at this point, could save the outcome of this boiled list of songs that never, as in this case, rhyme with "boring as hell," but alas, even the Californian slang of our bard certainly doesn't help to understand their meaning or, as Vittorio Gassman would say (rest his soul) "to grasp their noble and very high and pure hidden meanings, it's true, that bounce among the folds of his mind and blah blah blah."

Frankly, at this point, I'll tell you with my heart in my hand, if the lyrics "are the masterpiece," I would prefer to read a book (even on the same subject) in the total silence of my little room, to the sound of some scooter passing by, a barking dog, a distant crying baby, a plumbing system starting, a brake at the traffic light. Sometimes even this is music, and it doesn't mean it's the worst. Exactly.