Twenty One Pilots
Blurryface

When June arrives, for some unspecified reason, I get a strong urge to walk. Really, I'm a fat slob with the mobility of a fire hydrant above ground, but inevitably the arrival of this month (which, generally, also marks the end of the damn spring pollens that make me sneeze every half second) makes me turn into some sort of Alex Schwazer (compared to my usually sluggish pace). So, this June 2nd, at the crack of dawn at 8, I wake up, wash up, pack my backpack with some drinks, and set off. I walk for about 10 kilometers, and I pass by the record store where I usually shop. And I go inside. Sweaty, covered in damn gnats, and in pitiful condition. After an hour of pointless wandering (as I always do, without regrets), tired, I say: "Hey, you don't happen to have the latest by Elio, do you? You know, I wouldn't want to buy it, only to end up never listening to it." To which she says, totally at random, "No, but look, I have this one they say is good," and she pulls out from under the counter an album whose cover inspires me quite a bit. "Taken."

I get home, take the backpack off my shoulders, and hold the new record in my hands. I sniff it, because, like any good music lover, I have a fetish for plastic, and I unwrap it. I take a closer look at the cover and see the words "Twenty One Pilots" and "Blurryface." And something clicks in my head. Of course, they're the ones who wrote that annoyingly catchy song, "Stressed Out." "HOLY SHIT THAT CRAZY BITCH TRICKED ME." And, disappointed, I leave the record on the desk, never to listen to it again.

Come on, my God, of course I listened to it after, I'm writing a review, what am I doing, being dramatic (dramatic? Is that even a word?)?

Anyway, as I was saying, after placing the record on the desk, I even think about the option of gifting it to some friend of mine. After all, there's always plenty of bullshit sommeliers around. But this Friday, after listening for the umpteenth time to De André's live with the PFM (by the way, highly recommended), I see the poor work of the American duo lying lifeless on my desk, which has turned into a nest of dirty clothes and various indeterminate things over the week. "Oh well, let's give it a chance," I say out loud, because I'm probably quite crazy myself. I wish I'd never done it. It's been four days I haven't listened to anything else, and even now my stereo is playing the songs from this "Blurryface."

The initial impact is powerful, with "Heavydirtysoul," which represents, in my opinion, an unusual start for an album that should be "pop rap" (if these labels even mean something), with a very fast and sharp rap coupled with a paradoxically catchy and memorable refrain. And the rest of the album is no less, and it is incredibly varied, or at least, much more than you might hope. Moments of boredom are very rare (and cleverly placed in the middle of the work, where you still find "We Don't Believe What's On TV," one of the best tracks of the lot. Call them stupid), and you get closer to the end more and more satisfied, with the bitterness that, at least in my case, slowly leaves my mouth. And then the unexpected. After about 50 minutes of lightheartedness, "Goner" arrives, a heart-wrenching and intense song in its delicacy, an anthem of despair, but at the same time of the possibility of redemption, of life. And then that's it, it's been too many lines without a swear word because I've got a tear and I'm writing like a twelve-year-old in front of her musical idols, thinking that, after all, even "Stressed Out" isn't that bad. Fuck it.

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