Silent Rage
Shattered Hearts

ACHTUNG!

Self-pippa: to be avoided like the bubonic pest.

:(o)::(o)::(o):

Irresistible.

So, at least at the time (1987), this pre-Cenozoic, extinct specimen of glam/hard-rock'n'rolle seemed to me; I was young, enthusiastic, handsome (well, let's not exaggerate..), full of musical curiosity: formally a tabula rasa (non)electrified in which every stimulus was an additional piece of learning.

However, you will agree, there were pieces and pieces. This one, who knows why, lodged itself in my occipital sphere more deeply and stably than many (too many) others.

"Houston, we have a problem": it seems irresistible even today.

Now: I don't know if this residual irresistibility attests to the last rattling breath of the isolated (mono)neuron comfortably sprawled inside my spacious (lots for rent) skull, or not. The fact is that after a millennium of stratified dust piled up, it has materially resurfaced to the contemporary surface.

Well: after such an aphasic panegyric, I will render you enlightened of the imbelle, anthemic, shiny, swaggering, titillating, captivating, organoleptic, anatomical and anabolic musical matter emitted here and potentially translatable to your tattered ears.

[PuBbLiCiTy]

So: first of the three works produced over twenty years of honorable career, published by the microscopic label Chameleon Records (aka no pharaonic budgets and related advertising campaigns) "Shattered Hearts" is a tiny jewel, indeed more from a purely musical than textual point of view, let's say an essential compendium of what was (and perhaps should be) the Party Rock with stars and stripes: it tells of mythological figures, monumental doe, languidly lascivious and available women ("Sarina", "Lorraine" among the many deities mentioned), diligent Muses willing to "She Can Shake It"-all night, siren icons materializing in all their immense beauty before your hormonally eager eyes: such is the rock-identification capacity emitted by the fragments in question.

Oops: do not think that everything manifests as a vacuously thin extroversion of graceful pentagrammatic sequins and flimsy riff-paillettes; there is a fervent and pulsating soul in such hair-cottoned dischello: the boys really get into it (ahem..): a good thirty-five minutes of enjoyment and dynamic, marked by infectious ("Rich, Young & Pretty"), robust ("Wanting You"), sticky melodic lines ("Make It or Break It"), all performed instrumentally with an effectiveness not exactly common among most U.S.A.-rockers of the time.

Therefore: do I (urgently) need a psychiatrist?