•
Rating: I don't know exactly why, but cover albums intrigue me.
Who cares, the more polite among you would say.
Right!
But I, as few of you know, being a student of the S.I.S.M.I. (Squola Italica Sistemica per Mistici Ineducati) don't give a hoot about others' opinions without batting an eyelid.
Flap.
I was saying these albums intrigue me: even when they start out already overcooked, dead and twice dead at the very first glimmer of the foggy thought that generated them.
Exactly like this one.
Absolute freedom is unleashed (aka hound member) in a single cauldron with some absolute classics signed by Michael Jackson and Black Sabbath, Eurythmics and Toto, A-Ha and TLC.
Just to name a few.
In short, really, maybe it would be appropriate to say maybe not.
Perhaps the significant sense of the collection is that of the easy (precisely) copious collection of someone else's dollars.
But they should know that with me they won’t scrape anything at all.
For the sake of completeness, I can say that I obtained it a bit like all of you, albeit with apparently different methods: collecting soap bars, during the busiest hours, in the lost corners of the showers of the dilapidated structure that hosts me (perhaps it would be fair to say retains).
Not that I'm proud of it or very fond of it: but this burdensome task, as you can guess, must unfortunately be done by someone and if, by chance, it is compensated with some underhanded album, the result sometimes may be worth the effort.
I don't remember if I’ve already said it: these albums intrigue me.
Because I like to read them as respectful, indeed grateful is the right word, for others' art (whether low or high).
On the other hand, because I just love listening to how this theorized gratitude is enacted: that is, whether the tracks have been adequately mangled and perhaps rendered completely unrecognizable: those are the best covers, ça va sans dire.
On this front, I must say I have been thoroughly disappointed: however, I find that Ozzy Osbourne has never sung so well, as in this version of "Paranoid", and I mean at least since 1971.
Also, the cartoonized single "Take On Me" by the blond Swedes of the eighties, even though it's an authentic carbon copy that not even with a stencil would have come out so faithful to the original, tends to delight me in the act of bending down among the corners.
The truth is that between a The Turtles proto-sixties tune and a Tears For Fears plastic eighties one, I find it really hard to take it out of the player: it doesn't stress me, it doesn't bore me, I listen to it in heavy rotation and it almost amuses me.
The versions are perhaps all too neat and polite: no graters and devils to accompany the archaic Pop anthems contained therein.
In short: the album theoretically sucks but, in practice, I really like it.
This tells me that perhaps I should ask the night shift nurse not to overdo it with Xanax as usual and that maybe I should be assigned a more institutional task than soap collecting: picking up the joyful sprinklings emitted by the other patients who have a watering can instead of a urethra. Maybe with the fingertips.
It could even be more fun.
Loading comments slowly
