The Ghosts of Lovers
The Ghosts of Lovers

Good music is shit. That's what I think, and it should be an excellent thought.

For those who don't know, this is my place, and anyone who hasn't been around for at least 10 years doesn't mean a damn thing. Like the things I've read very sporadically since I stopped writing. And years have passed. Wonderful and tough, outrageous and blessed between life, death, sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. And a bit of punk, of course.

I was saying good music is shit, and this is real shit. It sounds glam, the lacquered kind à la Hanoi Rocks and ancestral punk, the kind that makes you talk about artifacts, about bands, groupies, and wild stories, lustful and moody like the Sex Pistols, Dead Milkmen, The Replacements, and Ramones.

Because I'm gifted not just below but also above, I've made some unconventional life choices that currently see me in a comfortable chair, which isn't what I wanted. I wanted to be like these people here, with the ability to compose melodic and rotten music, Bukowskian and refined, intellectually dishonest because it presents a cliché when in reality, they probably just want to achieve what I've had, taking a different path: life, death, sex, drugs, and rock n' roll.

It's not even a matter of instinct, in this album, it's just music, strumming strings, lamenting, and winking. Staying clean and honest in intentions because it never resorts to the Californian flamboyance that I like so much. It aims straight at the heart of the girls, avoiding a second job, so a lot of live activity to support themselves, self-proclaiming as anti-diva stars.

Precisely because who listens more to stuff made not to sell but to truly please, I adore these gentlemen. They haven't invented anything but they're there, with their damn hair (which I envy a lot) to remind you that direction is key, despite this forest of naive souls all around, that straightness is always the way, despite synths, post-productions, and hype. And that pussy is always the only true generator of wars not worth fighting but for which you always give everything. True glamster spirit, the one that makes you a Stilnovist poet and then immediately a porn star.

Then death arrives. Better to arrive "professional" or with syphilis and neurons, let's say, a bit confused but certain to have taken the only road that leads to being consumed and not consumerism?

And consume this life, damn it. Consume it and first of all listen within yourselves. There you will find honesty in listening to music. For me, it's this.