Sikitikis
Dischi Fuori Moda

THE REVIEW

They are thirty, with disillusion and anxiety in their eyes, a difficult smile and a mood always ready for the next outburst.

They work in call centers, sign crappy contracts, are lost in the neurotic daily grind, drink beer bottles near the exits of bars and pubs in the suburbs, and chew the bitter. They grudgingly bear the fake anxieties and fears, fueled by television, of their parents and grandparents. They have shifted their hatred from Berlusconi to the entire political class.

It is not pure ideological hatred. They are disappointed, pissed off, alienated. It's us, this is the generation of precariousness.

They dance to out-of-fashion music, often spend their free time in front of a computer, download, love, now talk, now communicate, now argue. They endure.

Upon reaching their third album, after digging into the ground searching for the roots of horror, both figurative and wild, the Sikitikis rediscover the essence of squalor by looking around. The result is "Dischi Fuori Moda", an album that is the offspring of a clear testimony of reality. No more movies, but small newspaper clippings. No more characters, just individuals.

The noir of previous works gives way to bright images and sounds, almost testifying to the dark side of modern displayed opulence, never real, disturbing.

Like a David Lynch film: the shocking pink paint that immerses the dense shadows of the everyday, the illusory escape from the world. Tiffany, consumerism, the blindfolded eyes of an increasingly deaf society. Absent and disoriented among the useless news of our newscasts.

Incommunicability. That suspicious way of looking at each other, complacency as a product of individualism and fear, the distance that makes us lonely and disoriented like fish in an aquarium.

The Italy (in fashion?) of the Sikitikis is a deformed, debased, bastardized, cynical, and ruthless country like in the worst of jungles. Hostile and cruel.

Eleven tracks tight as violin strings, lyrically intense like the pieces of the great Flavio Giurato, contained in musical test tubes similar to those of Bugo’s "Contatti," bold like the borderline tales of Zen Circus.

To the question: "What will we say about these damn 2000s?" the Sikitikis answer: "Who the hell cares about being thirty / if you can't do anything about it / if your mother has locked your future along with a fur coat closed in the closet." An undoubtedly interesting answer, one to ponder.