Tame Impala
The Slow Rush

That I had turned posh was already clear by 2015.

Apparently, five years ago, all those paninis with Venetian sopressa and sweet-and-sour onions (or, out of season, radicchio preserved in oil) had already had their effect of bourgeoisification/smoothing of edges/stupor as they disappeared down the gullet lubricated by abundant doses of prosecco, or alternatively, Friulian tocai at aperitifs among peers where the main topics consisted purely of tax advisors/real estate market/vehicle maintenance. Simultaneously, an additional bonus for the befuddlement must also have been due to an abuse of light drugs, specifically hashìsh-fume that, grown under the sun of the Atlas Mountains, had crossed the Mare Nostrum in obscure orifices before emerging under the beautiful Italian sun and from there penetrating my lungs, much less demanding than my stomach, then finally going out to see the stars again.

The consequence of all this was that in 2015 I liked Tame Impala's Currents. Sure, I didn't like it as much as the previous albums, those two easy-peasy but very effective bits of psychedelic pop that accompanied us during the slack moments in the early university years. Currents instead gave in to the temptation to package an album of pseudo-soft-yacht-rock that really consists essentially of fifty minutes of chill-out music in a club, when people are still having aperitifs with Hugo and Midori spritz before the arrogant DJ brings out the speakers that will blast six straight hours of arrogant four-on-the-floor interrupted only by moments of silence broken by a Stentor voice posing the eternal question "Are you reeeady" or giving the order "raise your handsss" obtaining only disjointed vowels from the crowd as a response.

In short, a flashy affair. But at least there were the songs.

Now, it might be the effect of a healthier lifestyle or the gray now adorning my raven temples, but today, to my 2020 self, it seems that on The Slow Rush there aren't even any songs. 57 minutes and 15 seconds of calmness, of caressing sounds crafted by hands of skilled craftsmanship and sure science that cannot cause displeasure.

But it's still elevator music.