I had already written about the guitarist who welcomed the twilight, involving the entire neighborhood with his improvised pentatonics, sometimes finely jazzed, often clumsily executed. After a few days of absence, there he was again, ready – as always – to give melancholic life to the day that was fading and the night that was approaching. But suddenly, the surroundings erupted: screams, threatening phrases, a siege prompted by the security decree bis. One even responded with a bombardment of music at high volume: a playlist that started with "Il cielo d'Irlanda" by Mannoia and continued with a compilation of Celtic music from a roadside convenience store. Since that day, the guitarist has remained silent, mortified. Because in those sometimes awkward notes, there was a certain something of melancholy, a "blue" that not everyone can appreciate. Dear guitarist, I would like to take revenge for you, but my acoustic guitar plays gently and softly, with its tuning wavering between "Red House Painters" and "Pink Moon," with its 432 Hz. But I could also remind you that, after all, it's still an electrified acoustic guitar... two right pedals and, I swear, I will make you regret it. Metal Machine Music, Pt. 1