Ringo Deathstarr
Colour Trip

The Brian Jonestown Massacre reconcile me with the sense of listening to music.

My Bloody Valentine have provided me with the ultimate album.

The Koolaid Electric Company slowly cooks my gray matter.

Serena Maneesh project me towards the future of this genre.

Ringo Deathstarr? I would screw them. One by one, I don't care.

How else to express gratitude for an irreplaceable trinket, for the pleasure experienced in listening to the luxury surplus? And also the super - fluous. The review of this album can be summed up in a few words. "Colour Trip," on one hand, is a collection of the best shoegaze already heard in the past, offered by a band that goes straight on its path, swerving between MBV and J&MC; on the other hand, it is a very robust album, excellently produced, offering the sensation of sounds cushioned by pure cotton, of reverbs bouncing on foam rubber, of six strings and perhaps more scratched with fingernails, of fluorescent color tubes squeezed with vehemence, whose paste is extremely sweet to the palate. Here, if there's anything new in this album, it is a rather pop approach to shoegaze, very oriented towards capturing as many listeners as possible. Something different compared to the sugary plots of Slowdive or the soporific MBV puffs. Something decidedly listenable, danceable, whistleable. Something definitely like this, mischievous, right? As far as possible, an album that takes away certain sounds from the realm of dreams and contains them, without forcing them, on a soft and light terrain, on a white sand where I hope to meet them in summer: "Colour Trip" inspires in me those fantastic discussions with someone who is actually not there and with a mouth full of paste and dried saliva at the corners of the lips, at nine in the morning on a deserted beach that slowly begins to fill with monsters. Who knows how many iced beers I'll throw on it.

The Ringo Deathstarr turn out to be a tight-knit band, perfectly comfortable in their stage outfits, also a bit ironic and light in their manner. Under this veneer of apparent nonchalance, however, works a group already playing spectacular football from memory, drawn tight for the first time, that consciously has engineered such a precise work, perfect gamble, to appear in some circumstances plasticky and catchy. Perhaps two virtues for this genre, in these times. Let's do this, I won't give them the maximum score, I'm afraid of giving five to something that pleases me so much that, out of paranoia, I'm afraid it might hide a single, undetected off-note. But, as happened last year, don't be surprised if in my 2011 ranking you'll find at the top an album to which I haven't given the highest marks.

Some stories are best kept under the radar, you run the risk of burning them when they are already so burnt themselves.