Owen
The Avalanche

I waited for this album with a comfortable and disenchanted semi-fan pose, sure I could expect the usual, which arrived with all the characteristics of the case. I savor the obvious essence of an acoustic album refined by the wisdom of the decades that Mike Kinsella has spent behind the possible perfect Owen album. Actually, that's not even true. I've always thought that this project was an inevitable product of Mike's presence on this earth, as if as long as the author lives, an album from his acoustic project must somehow come out every now and then, like saying that the songs in this style come to the author effortlessly. And indeed there has never been a real stylistic evolution; here you can feel that the American Football reunion happened, let’s say an enthusiast senses its presence in a sort of slight increase in edginess, as if this were a minimal variant of the usual recipe. But nothing more.

And yet you will never see me refuse a homemade meal just because it is the thousandth time grandma presents you with meatballs. On the contrary, I will appreciate the particular and unique taste, in its own way, of each bite, in a zen attitude that aims to savor the uniqueness of every moment of a beloved routine. Someone might say oh you're a fanboy, but just trying to give it a tone. Yet the tone of this reverberation makes the meatball, even in its meatball-like essence identical to itself as a representative of the glorious race of meatballs according to grandma's recipe, a bit better than usual, and the breadcrumb arrangements give a more solid and varied rhythm to the chewing, and the waltz of the beef with pieces of salami is better blended than usual, giving the usual arpeggiation of the meat an adherence to the melodious yolk more inspired than other times. The true gourmand chews slowly and appreciates the simple beauty of wiping the plate with that perfect sauce.

And if then, those with me smile revealing a piece of parsley between their teeth, I will remain silent, aware that etiquette is the enemy of all things spontaneous, beautiful, and fun.