One Dimensional Man
A Better Man

If you want it to hurt, you must have the courage to face it.

And this hurts.

The one-dimensional man emerges from the glued pages of a book that you left to rot in the attic, thinking that utopian places had finally come to light and that you would no longer need to look back at that being unable to move in a decent space around him, again oppressed excessively by the all/too much/plenty, suffocated by the overcrowding of idiots.

The one-dimensional man who has now exited through the attic door has set the theater curtain on fire, no longer needing the unnecessary hype created at the premiere of every damn worldly event.

The one-dimensional man looks at himself in the mirror in the only way that suits him and sees that many things are now drawn on him. On his inconsistent body stand the faces of a plethora of people who didn’t know where else to go.

He can read a story written by an Australian named Rossmore James Campbell, a heart-wrenching story, that is mercilessly set to music by the new incarnation of the one-dimensional man: the boss who doesn't babble like when his videos air on TV, Pierpaolo Capovilla, who sings without nerve-wracking tunes, intones melodies and ingrown distortions, then the master of sounds Giulio Ragno Favero, who cuts the face with guitars that are overshadowed by other sounds, making you feel bad, and thirdly the newcomer, the man of southern noise, Luca Bottigliero, who usually embodies a certain kind of "evil" with a creature named Mesmerico (listen to believe, they rock).

And the pain unfolds in a thousand pestilent shades, here there is no damn bit of "Italian," the one-dimensional man knows it, and then he destroys the dancefloor with atomic guitars, synthesizers, the spatial voice and the cyber-anal tribalities of "Fly" (masters of dance? Sir Bob Cornelius Rifo and Jacopo Battaglia), grinds the teeth with the lead groove of "A Measure Of My Breath", pierced by mud-flavored blues ghosts, with the bastardly unison choruses of the Melvins’ household, twists the guts when on the increasingly shattered stage emerges from an intoxicating coal hell Mr. Eugene Robinson, who intertwines his laments with those of Capovilla, in a birthday party-like dance, that breaks the heart, with half-cry finale, and annihilates you wearing the clothes of Nick Cave on amphetamines with a harrowing "Ever Sad A Better Man Reprise" along with a little orchestra of pain escorting the condemned to death through the dust, the violin and sax besmear with his blood. And in a little corner, he also finds a small pearl signed by Scott Walker, the tormented and hallucinated "Face On Breast".

For those who love filth, this is the right orgy.