Sadistik
Flowers For My Father

Pride is what really screws you over. Obvious, surely, but I just recently discovered this.

"there he is, the idiot arrives now to make such discoveries. You really live on the moon eh!"

True, I definitely lived on the moon: no, in reality, I've always thought about how thin the line is between a simple "I'm sorry" and a "bloody hell I'd rather lose my dignity, but forgive me, please." For once I decided to choose another alternative and rely on pride; this time I said "NO," but only I bear the consequences.

"Yes, now it's only your problem. But that's the price you pay to become a tough guy: exile. You had the courage to rebel against an unsustainable situation and said goodbye; you made an important decision and now don't think you can turn back. Travel!"

Yeah but damn, I've reached the land of fire, only to end up between the ice of Alaska, yet she always clings to me. My God, I should be a bodybuilder to bear the weight of memories: instead, I am the most worthless piece of trash possible. Come on, even now, as I'm walking in the middle of the heart of winter, she's always there, almost as if she's waiting for me. And it can't be, come on damn. Cut off a testicle, make me drink a river of vodka as long as the Orinoco, let me beat a bear with my bare hands, let me spend a night of wild and crazy sex with Moira Orfei, but get the crap out of my head. Here, lobotomize me, so it all comes out. Come ooon.....

And while I'm distracted, I notice the splendid landscape surrounding me: a freezing night, a clear sky, and a bottle of rum. I drink a little, then start walking. A surreal silence manages to even outdo my thoughts. Then suddenly, the music starts....

Sadistik is perhaps one of the best rappers ever: fearsome flow, hallucinatory metrics, and rhymes as if there were no tomorrow. Add the not negligible skill of perfectly interpreting his own lyrics (which, except for a few bars with a strictly adolescent tone, are beautiful), and it's game over.

The compact sound wall shifts from ambient to rock with an almost alarming ease:  vague references to a certain Bristolian trip hop and tributes to old school. It all sounds tremendously perfect. Rap done as God's command, nothing more, nothing less. And if the transcendental beauty of an intense piece like Snow White (brilliant Indie rock whose tail flows into the most estranging and alienating ambient) doesn't convince you, then let yourself be transported to another dimension with the cathartic Palmreader (where trip-hop becomes the main ingredient). Fans of depression? Song for the End of the World is an anthem you can't afford not to sing then.

I could give you a thousand other examples, but the truth is that to get into the heart of the album, you need to rely on melancholy: a particular companion, very sophisticated, presenting itself at the most opportune moments and beginning to pester you. It becomes difficult to detach from it. Tonight I even make love to it, here, on the snow. Let's set this night on fire.

An album that is a true experience: necessary.

You told me before that the price to become a tough guy is exile. But I just realized that running away in itself implies a hidden cowardice in the human soul. And if instead, my journey, my aimless wandering, my engaging in superficial relationships were nothing more than a big pile of bullshit? If I decided to stop making love with melancholy and decided to come back home, would it be bad? If for once it were the food eating the man, the rifle shooting with the man, peace bringing war, the storm bringing good weather, children bringing gifts to Santa Claus, and water making us drunk?

Bloody hell, the rum is hitting hard here. The journey is long and there's no turning back. Not this time either.