Rosolina Mar
Before and After Dinner

The music from my country has a strong laxative effect on me. With the due exceptions from the past and a couple of current proposals, in the years I listened to dozens of bands in the so-called independent sphere, I competed to find which one was the most insignificant. This pretentious and superficial introduction becomes an unequivocal reality if the reader is someone even slightly informed of the facts. The facts show us that exceptions exist; what are they if not events occurring under extraordinary circumstances? This second rational and pedantic part becomes constant if the reader does not stop at appearances, if they delve deep to find new inspirations. The part that follows is meant to be a tribute to three musicians and their inspiration, their desire to dig into that passion called music.

Rosolina Mar is a town in the province of Ravenna, but also the praise of the imperfection of music as a willful art, fatal, inextricably linked to the moment, the look, and the pulses of the subconscious. But who really listens to music for instrumental virtuosity or technicalities? It serves to transmit, not to learn; it is a nourishing set, not of nutrients.
“Before And After Dinner” (a 2005 story) embodies the essence of this immortal and raw spirit, a flow of consciousness channeled through instruments, the sun trapped in a beam through a lens. There are no genres or classifications that hold, no references of any kind; what’s elusive are notes in motion, chromatic nuances, melodic kaleidoscopes. There’s an ambiguous relationship with song form; here many arise and die within seconds. Precision is deliberately absent, except for the rhythmic one, in the man/musicality relationship. The guitars are a river of mystery in full flow, the drums are the catalyst of artificial architectures, fearsome as they rise nanospheres over our ears. All of this with the air of those who laugh under their breath, Rosolina Mar plays, they make fun of themselves, and in the listening, we become accomplices of the trick that inevitably reflects on ourselves; we get duped, we play along as well, oh well, let’s pretend that this isn’t crystalline, genuinely inspired rock.

But what am I writing? These are the best damn 40 minutes of rock that the boot has ever known. Indulge yourselves with the cult of the electric cable in religion class too, not without the Sunday morning blessing of the tractors at your toxic love. Before and After Dinner, for a frugal meal.
And if for you all this can be resolved in two words: math rock, well then you are ahead.