Television
Marquee Moon

THE REVIEW

I am Edward Norton from "25th Hour," and this fucking album is the mirror that reflects my thoughts.
So fuck it.
Fuck the Strokes, enriched with dollars and groupies by endlessly remaking "See no evil".
Fuck the Libertines, who take "Venus", and think: we'll revamp it and the trick will work. But "Venus" is my hero, and heroes die young and beautiful.
Fuck the NME, and its "next big thing" bullshit, fuck New York, and its garage bands that sprout like mushrooms from dusty basements.
Fuck the blacks in Harlem, but not because they don't pass the ball in basketball, but because they listen to that asshole 50 cents. And fuck the upper-class whites, because to them everything is either cool or freakish, the rest is boredom.
And fuck the good Italian people, because - I read - "Marquee Moon" sold 24,000 copies in this fucking country. Keep dancing your fucking Latin-American dances, with your nice strawberry cocktails and obligatory smiles. Fuck it.
Fuck White Hassle, because I fell for it, and instead, it was just "Friction," changing 2 notes per song.
Fuck Tom Verlaine, because I believed in virginity and instead, he told me everything had already been raped 30 years ago.
Fuck progressive, a whore kicked in the ass by punk fury - God bless it - but not before stuffing all their mental masturbations and three-quarter-hour symphonies in.
Fuck "Marquee Moon," the song I mean, because I never managed to learn that guitar riff, and fuck Wilt, and D4, because - on the contrary - they managed it splendidly.
Fuck the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, because the spirit of "Elevation" in their songs is a punch in the stomach, but then I immediately regret it and put "Marquee Moon" back in the player.
Fuck the International Noise Conspiracy, because they make my blood boil, but they should have written in the credits that it was a cover album. I would have loved it just the same.
Fuck "Torn Curtain," because it's stunning, with its obsessive percussion, and the whining guitars, a knife that cuts me in two every time.
Fuck this world adrift, and the starvation wage it gives me, I wanted "Is this it" by the Strokes in original because behind that ass on the cover is the album that made me jump out of my chair. Fuck love in the time of mobile phones and progress: read the lyrics to "Marquee Moon," and come back alive.
Fuck my mother, because instead of her walks in Marechiaro she could have done something more constructive and brought me into the world a little earlier: I would have savored the event with greater freshness. Now, instead, I'm stuck with the delay, concert of the 90 Day Men in a week, who stole the iconoclastic and oblique attitude of "Marquee Moon".
Fuck "Guiding Light," because it comes after 17 minutes of distortions and screaming guitars, and I'm never ready to face the peace before the storm's return.
Fuck me, a slave to rock & roll, and fuck all these fucking bands because without them I really wouldn't know what to do. They are just children, as you are, and as I am, because we are all children of a father.
They - more than me, and you - are simply sons of such a father.
And for a child it is always a source of pride when told "how beautiful you are... You are just like your father."