AA.VV.
Bossa n' Roses

As you know, dear listeners, there are quite a few monsters, circus phenomena, and aberrations in the vast musical world. And that would be fine if it weren't for the fact that sometimes, with a sort of therapeutic persistence, of acrobatic surgery, someone insists on making them, certain monsters. Sometimes laboratory experiments turn out well, sometimes, the DNA chain miraculously combines worthily, and our ears benefit, enjoy. But not today.

Here we are in a full 50s horror script, this album reminds me of "Freaks," the disturbing and unsettling 1932 film or, if we want to take it more ironically, "The Lost Island," the 1996 disaster loosely based on the beautiful Welles novel "The Island of Dr. Moreau." One of the most unintentionally funny films of the past twenty years, with a bewildered Marlon Brando wandering the island, crossing everything that moves and creating horrific beings. That's "Bossa n' Roses."

This album -sponsored by Martini vermouth- is rejected by the simple rules of nature-music. Not so much because it has the audacity to offer us a compilation of Guns n' Roses in bossa nova version, not for this, in fact, we like experiments but this album is unlistenable regardless of its difficult fusion. It simply is because it bores, there is no passion, there is no desire to truly amaze and in the end, it all flattens out into fairly anonymous lounge music, from a half-empty bar. Not to mention that a memorable production does not contribute to this sensation, making everything truly too artificial.

Since each song has different performers, fortunately, there are also more successful episodes alternating with embarrassing circus numbers, like the flute on "Sweet Child of Mine", for example. Or like the dull "Patience" and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door". Other things like "Welcome" turn out decidedly better but I don't want to bore you with a detailed description of each piece. I would put more time and passion into it than those who recorded it.

In the end - if you make it to the end - it all takes on such a tacky and kitsch flavor that makes you think that perhaps a collection like this could find a place. No, I'm not talking about the trash or your bathroom but certain summer evenings where you might find yourselves dining on the terrace with your friends, possibly Brazilian trans of low schools, or when you have to allure an intellectually uncurious girl, who has a musical conception stuck at "Questo piccolo grande amore" and a culture forged on Sunday afternoon TV. Now, tell me what you are doing with someone like that. Are you in such bad shape? Anyway, your business, in all the cases described, this fake South American mess recorded by "genre" musicians, bored and worn out by the free case of Martini present in the recording studio, could even come in handy for you. Otherwise, it's good to hang on the windshield of your truck.

By the way, as if that weren't enough, these phenomena have done the same thing with U2, the Beatles, and, hear hear, the Ramones.

P.S. Anyway, if you're curious, the most successful experiment in this field, Caribbean and rock, is that of the Combo de la Muerte and their Tropical Steel where they manage to merge Slayer and latinjazz. And they do it great. A well-done review of them is already present on DeBaser, so take that one as good.