Eugenio Finardi | Diesel

A limping yet rhythmic Jazz... for this composed in its irrepressibility. A crackling convulsion. A native foreignness (Finardi's mother was American) not cloying with personal and musical references to bebop. Cities, chaos, scorching bustling highways, night-owl eyes of truckers glaring from the reflectors of the delineators. The piston eventually jams, chokes in the bass drum. It cannot stop, behind a flock of calcson... ready to depart, it leaves behind some oil stains. Society and engines burning from within. Everyone on the track!

For @[Dislocation]