Damn little frog fart, you are outdoing yourself and pulling out something not even Elly Schlein on acid.

 I can’t breathe, the sky is falling, my tongue is on fire...

 Rashomon becomes the most fascinating 'Rubik’s Cube' cinema has ever offered, capable of satisfying both the grandiose needs of the masses and the needs of the soul and intellectual acrobats.

 It is a quest for mystery through a series of different, even contradictory, testimonies that relativize to the point of deeply questioning the concept of truth.

 "Night tree bark, knives born from rust whisper the names, the time, and the hearts."

 "Fresh as the oblivion poppy the mouth that kisses it."

 ‘What kind of people are these... Humans, you say, what kind of primitive and incoherent people are they if they end up using kitchen means for... for...’

 ‘And yet the effect is indescribably beautiful, I don’t even know why, but it’s... beautiful, here.’

 The improbable manifests itself with the simplicity of the everyday.

 The art of zoom to assert: "heard up close, everything is a world".

 Guitars like shredded metal sheets, precise and sharp like glittering scalpels.

 Like looking into a heart of darkness.

 The world is a computer. I am a number. My body? Do I still have a body? Am I still my body?

 It’s the end of the world, let’s get comfortable, relax, and enjoy its death.

 The march that opens and closes the composition... is the first march ever written for a funeral.

 It sounds like something irrevocable, sudden. Like death, indeed.

 "Which band on their first record could host David Sylvian and Steve Howe and start an album with a rhythmic and hypnotic song, using Poe’s ‘Dream Within a Dream’ as lyrics? These guys aren’t normal, they’ll become huge!"

 "Now the cassette is yours, you are my sister and you my brother, even if you are Genoese..."

 The end is not a defeat. You don’t cry, just smile.

 The monster dies but it dies still hungry—it's had its fill of lives.

 Space is just noise as much as the time of 'SpaceisOnlyNoise' is marked only by sounds.

 A kind of nebulous ambient-pop hovers, a controlled, oblique, remote melancholy where even brief minimalist sketches are fundamental pieces of the narrative continuum.

 Vladislav Delay has the gift of being able to tell stories based solely on the environmental details of makeshift urban cross-sections.

 The four long sketches of Entain speak of just as many Dubliners in frantic search of epiphanies after sunset has activated a certain sixth sense in them.

 "That gypsy lied to me and now I want my coin back, he is the one driving and I’m in the middle of the road."

 "I hate poets and poetry books; I hate the fact that they make you remember how to fill every space without wasting a single word."

 Maria Grazia manages to add her touch, gifting us with an iconic performance I would not hesitate to call memorable.

 ‘Tu con la mia amica’ is undoubtedly a tasteless piece, a raucous imitation of Gianna Nannini characterized by overused rock blues chords, jarring guitars blasted at inappropriate volumes, and a nonsensical, almost absurd text.

 "Sanremo also has good things at times... but is it really worth it?"

 "A circus that gives priority to memes and making a splash rather than giving space to music ends with being what it fundamentally is, that is everything bland there is in the world."

 The garage is the only 'genre' that doesn’t need novelties... it would be complete heresy.

 Basic garage, just three of them making wonderful chaos, solid rhythm section more than right and the guitar sound willingly venturing vs Stoner alla Monster Magnet.

 Thanks to Last.fm, however, a great tool that tracks listening habits and provides interesting statistics, it’s possible to create a general—not just musical—overview.

 Caught them by sheer luck this summer in Bari. You know the concert that becomes an occasion to delve deeply into discographies and the post-live euphoria effect?

 The album lasts about an hour and is certainly suitable for absorbed and demanding listening.

 I assure you that the bravest will remain firmly in their seats and let themselves be led by Noise & Paradox to the frontiers of the galaxy.

 With a certain cunning, this work could be considered in some ways even better than the acclaimed 'Play,' certainly more sincere, less sleazy, and without any pretense.

 This album sounds just like those slightly faded Sunday afternoons returning from the usual day trip to a remote farmhouse, with the sun never finishing setting.

 Four pieces spread over thirteen melancholic minutes. Everyone imagines them as they wish; mine are gray, with profiles of buildings swallowed by smog.

 I don’t know if it has real artistic value, but they are thirteen minutes that work.