Pink Floyd
The Dark Side of the Moon

THE REVIEW

In the name of Syd Barrett, we turn over in our graves. They should have changed their name, the name of the band, but how do you write those songs after "The Piper..."

Waters' populism is unbearable, Gilmour's indifference is disgusting, Wright's passivity is unforgivable, Mason's narrow-mindedness is irredeemable: a nice little group of jealous mediocrities who cannot stand anyone naturally superior. A Bounty mutiny against harmony creating regime harmony.

A jumble of "common sounds" hard to digest, mind you it's a great work, beautiful, pleasant, everything is perfect to be a vehicle that pollutes like plastic and like plastic is hard to dispose of. It fools adolescence and early youth, and the effect it produces once you understand the trick is obvious: an involutionary path has been created, and from the top of the first one by one, you've fallen into the sewer of the pyramid: from a healthy squeeze of oranges, to alcohol, to regurgitation, to vomiting and, worst of all, to consideration. They even "think".

"A Saucerful..." lived off the reflection of the first, "Ummagumma" confirms the other members' inability to musically reproduce anything mystical, "Atom..." is annoying with its pretentious classical-symphonic à la mode, "Meddle" serves as a warm-up for the indigestible omelet: the "dark side" is pre-cooked food heated in the microwave, guaranteed stomach tumor, you pay for the chemo though, not to mention multicolor rays sent back from the prism, that's system therapy...

"The dark side of the ass" by The Brown Moquette they should have called it and called themselves, where the brownest stain on brown, you can imagine what it is: the other "cheek" of the butt is smelly where the sly will of the major was indulged, and the doormat-moquette are our "musicians" who sold the Universe for a "crumb of Moon". Just to stay in the selenitic realm, it is to be aligned with the '69 moon landing, a double FAKE, therefore.

But again, you feel it easy when you cut your toenails, when you pick your nose, when you eat your pineapple pizza, when you are engaged in any activity involving 0% emotional involvement, that's the stark reality: it's like when you see a beautiful woman, perfect, who perfectly meets the (imposed) beauty standards, but when you get close, you feel nothing, the void, the cold, no one is home. It's more exciting to be jerked off by a dead hand.

With Diogenes and his lantern, something can be unearthed: Syd, Nico, Tim Buckley, Drake, Ciampi, who gave Flesh and Blood floating in the impersonal, generating a conscious suffering we call Love. And like "The Cynic," we also tell the Pink Floyd what he told Alexander the Great when he visited him, blocking his view, asking if he needed anything, and he replied: "Get out of the sunlight..."

I have loved and will continue to love this LP (and the others) for that memory of reckless youth that protects you and forgives everything, but persisting is diabolical, and a healthy revisionism should be denied to no one: now I see only conformity. But how can you talk about "Money" when you're inside the system? Weren't the Beatles enough?

The greatness of Pink Floyd was in creating a sound that engaged more chakras. In those suites, there were atmospheric, rock, melodic, ambient musical passages, a range of variations that managed to involve the listener, stimulating various centers and creating balanced well-being.

But is it the identification of the beginning of a new age kitsch? Are we sure they work to free up to new openings, or do they create soporific horizons, a sedated ephemeral sonic paradise? Is it the smile of Buddha or from psychotropic drugs that emerges after use in the absence of Barrett? Is this the scam of "rock and roll"? "With technology, you could make people believe anything." Therefore, vote pending, like the sensation of emptiness that the album transmits to me.

Aut Syd Aut Nihil!