Uochi Toki
Libro Audio

Guys, I'm always following debaser, I haven't missed, and I quote, off the top of my head, << [the] screams [the] moans and [the] wails>> about the comatose state of Italian Music: a homepage full of the usual bland names that depresses and screams for vengeance, poor country indeed if the same refrains are always being cloned from one another, etc.

Luckily, Uochi Toki come to my [our] rescue, the most mind-bending duo in the country, an experiment of computerized cacophony within stories from a surrealist session held in a subway car traveling through a birch forest. Saturated with spores. Like Nausicäa’s forest (the Japanese one). Recovering the temporal integrity of the CD format that they used to shatter with the pulverization of the track-list into a myriad of micro tracks, even though they've tried it before, they abandon themselves to a more articulated narrative dimension, organizing around 12 tracks (x 14 characters) sound visions and verbal flows of undeniable expressive and creative suggestiveness.

Musically they attempt a multilateral approach, tying themselves to genres far from rap and hip hop to evoke dissociative, discordant dimensions, like the preadolescence of an Italian boy on a disco-doom base, "Il Ballerino", to alienate a normal Dostoevskian story with the analog sounds of vintage video games, "Il Ladro". The pinnacle is the almost 10 minutes of "L'osservatore, L'osservatore 1", conceptually the fulcrum of the album with its hustle of "things that don't exist" a piece that juggles between a cataleptic Squarepusher, Jon Hassell, in terms of how the sounds are elaborated from a sixth world, and the Khanate something played by a psychotic DJ inspired by the streets of Italy. Uochi Toki also attempt to stitch together with a remote past to define their own ethical etymology, the origin of their choices, "Il Nonno Il Bisnonno". Murakami listening to Henry Rollins, you can sing this piece! generates "Il Claustrofilo". "Il Necromante" and "Lo Spadaccino" are the most impersonal texts, beautiful and hermetic, like reading simultaneously the more scientific Calvino of "Ti con Zero" and "Le Cosmicomiche" and the more fabulist one of the "Our Ancestors" trilogy.

An absurd, sulfurous work, populated by unsettling presences, disillusioned and desperate, menacing, constantly evoking death, black, perfect for how it captures the mood, the emptiness, the vertigo of these years.