Slint
Tweez

THE REVIEW

Before locking himself in the basement. Before staring at his fist full of flies. Before turning into a spider and bitterly dangling from the threads of his vulnerabilities.

Once upon a time, the man of the underground was just a boy wandering around the world.

Alleys, trash, car wrecks, broken voices, dusty cobwebs, and streaks of crap along the sidewalks. People above all, faces to run a hand across to never forget them.

Nine little pieces, one big umbilical cord to cut. Bye mom, bye dad, bye dog, bye rock. Gift, letter, farewell speech? Yes. But the gift is a filter made from a used bus ticket, the letter is written by a jerk of a friend, and the speech is full of spit and fuck off.

An overbearing, harsh, disheveled sound, with exposed nerves and tense muscles. Starts hardcore and ends para-psychedelic after freaking out in a pill-induced free-form, starts noise and crashes after wading through an indie puddle, starts angry and ends introspective after pissing on everything expected from him.

How do you impress the hottest girl in class? Whispers and testosterone, stoned spoken word and rock hawking.

And in all this, putting in the lucid madness of a method not yet patented, the impatient frenzy of electric shocks searching for 5g of good weed in the square, the solid and tireless ankles of rhythms as heavy as post-hangover breath.

Freedom? Rather, a search for freedom in coded places, a desire to open windows through artifice. Like at the Standa parking lot, many years ago, when we would meet after dinner and the collective delirium would start after the signal: "chi arrizza appizza".

A record with oily skin, dirty nails, and a lit conscience. It spins on the turntable without asking permission and slides away like adolescence.

Then the boy became a man, went down the stairs, and closed the door.

The rock, however, stayed outside.