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Did you want the APOCALYPSE?
Well, here it is, served on a silver platter with cobalt blue inlays and lush hunting scenes.
As a first apolitical and apocalyptic gesture, we, the esteemed Members of C.A.R.A.Basia (Collective of Anomalous Reviewers of Basia's Society), have decided to put under our blurred magnifying glass the flashing musical-circus extravaganza par excellence:
The 'Ickis factor' (X Factor).
Now many of you, at least we asked ourselves, will ask: but exactly what the heck is this Ickisi Factor?
The Solomon-like draw on the soccer betting pool seems irrelevant here.
Well then, let’s all try to understand together passionately through a sensational Trek-by-trek like no one has read here since at least the first date of DeBaser’s transition: 1972, let’s say.
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Anastasio Anastasi - "The end of the world" [Subtitle: "This is the right apocalypse"]
ICS Factaaahhhh has replaced the national-popular festival of Sanremo, being its revised and corrected version, updated to the times of social media and reality format.
And it is one of the few grounds for potential musical sharing (?!?) with the Wife, who being a woman does not have auricular apparatus for all that corollary of telluric wickedness that makes us feel so manly and alternative, in that privileged snobbish bubble in which only we true connoisseurs wallow.
It is noble to lower oneself to view it, as a biologist would while investigating that colony of proteus vulgaris under a microscope, driven by anthro-sociomusical intents. To guess just how negative the parabolic coefficients tracing the path of the Italian collective (dis)taste are.
Yes, I know ... these ravings are nothing more than frail and intellectually dishonest arguments justifying my regrettable propensity for trash, surely well known.
But let him who is without sin cast the first guano! (help me @Pinhead)
So, theme song, Cattelan, the judges' round and let’s go with the night of the unreleased, which then unreleased no way ... this stuff I had already heard during the auditions eh.
Amanda, that slut cat thinks to poop, the apartment is immediately saturated with the smell of cat shit. Incredible how such a small feline can embody such devastating miasmatic power.
Clean litter, plaid.
My son, on whom at least my paternal musical imprint seems to have taken root, shakes his head and puts on his headphones while setting the table.
The winning horse is Anastasio because:
1) Aho, Anastasio smashes it.
2) Rock (just like Debaser) is dead, now the musical language prevailing is rap, and Icsfactahhh has yet to launch a rap singer.
3) Anyway, Anastasio is strong.
4) Sherol might also win, filling the gap of the Afro-origin singer in our lively domestic record market offer, but rap is cooler and Anastasio smashes.
5) Then this unreleased has a nice writing, come on ... it gives me some nice imagery. Who wouldn't ride the meteorite of the armageddon to punish humankind listening to this crap?
This meteorite stuff reminds me of this "the ninth hour - Cattelan" (I can’t link the wrecked image ... you think about it!)
The Wife has already fallen asleep, as usual. I turn up the volume enough to cover the snoring (snorrage? snoring??? roar???).
Amanda cleans her ass with feline class and nonchalance, waddling like a penguin, carefully placing her anus on the roughest cushion (not stupid).
"Bitch, if I had gone to the cattery that day, you would not be here, know that"
And anyway, I really don’t understand shit about rap, this is also known.
Signed and sealed: Algol
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Castelli Renza - "English Sky" [Subtitle: "It always rains there!"]
Like, to say, you, how many are you? One, no one, one hundred thousand? Because here we are many, too many without a doubt.
I try to sell some of them off (three for two, Black Friday, Saturday who knows?) but, alas, nobody is interested. Also because the trade would include cuts or clumsy souls, not my glorious self.
Thus, among my most neglected selves, I always try to give away the one (or the one) who watches x factor., but, OK, no luck. That’s why about the topic of Renza Castelli, not only can I talk, but I can, how to say (may god have mercy), make its history.
She presented herself at the beginning as a classic girl with a guitar, or, following Jungian classification, as the archetypal singer-songwriter with preferably red hair.
A winning and perfect choice, not lacking of autumnal delicacies, nor of a falsely intense gaze.
Not to mention a certain schoolteacher beauty lost in a mannequin dream. But obviously, it was not enough. So, for this unreleased, they have pastelized and sepia-toned it excessively and, as the coup de grace, horrifyingly stiffened it. And stiffening the softness of autumn, especially if it is female softness, is a crime against humanity.
I saw her suffering, poor star, forced to rest in the infinitely mundane, singing words so vacuous that even not listening to them is useless.
Instead, we would have liked to see her building (real) castles in the air, and the air would have been fine even fried. But no, instead sky dancers go up in the air. The sky may well be English, but we only like the soup from England.
Trallallà...
Signed and sealed: Luludia
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Attili Martina - "Cherophobia" [Subtitle: "Don’t worry: it’s not contagious"]
The esteemed islander has requested a particular and heartfelt comment from me on the track “Cherophobia” by the young Xfactorian Martina Attili.
Let’s jump in with both feet.
“Rumors are already saying it’s a plagiarism!! Wow, we’re off on the right foot then.
Just compare the two versions of the song available online; hearty congratulations on the chosen title... gosh and roll (light yourself a joint).
In the first audition, where you see the young girl, frightened, simple, showing her 16 years. Fresh-faced, so to speak; she sings with visible emotion and is not even despicable in all honesty.
Except for Fedez’s face, which I prefer not to comment on. Then it jumps to the show version, the first evening: Martina transformed, uglified by heavy makeup, a horrible mask fake and false like in the worst editions of this authentic “Equestrian Circus” of nothingness. Her shyness, her innocence from the auditions is gone, disappeared, shelved. I don’t understand the sense of this: but leave her to her 16 years you damn choreographers and makeup artists.
Shameful...Can I go back to listening to “Utopia Banished” by the cherubs Napalm Death...
I ABSTAIN...”
Signed and sealed: De Marga
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Gassman Leo - "Feathers" [Subtitle: "Of Triceratops"]
Here is my letter, oh captain, my captain. Use it as you see fit. And remember me - from time to time - in your nightly prayers.
Leo Gassman
Hard is the bed of the caring father, aware that out there is a world fighting for the best spots and that, his beloved kids, will have to fight tooth and nail to snag a coveted spot as an operator or food delivery person or even a councilor of the five-star movement.
Unless, besides being caring, the aforementioned father has also been prudent. Enough to preserve for himself and the beloved fruit of his loins some ancient trade, some knowledge handed down from father to son.
Like being the child of an Art’s offspring.
Don’t think it’s easy! It’s not enough to flaunt an excellent name - like, say, De André - to live off guest appearances on D’Urso and such.
You also have to show something: a bit of t**s, a bit of a**, a soul scar... Or you’ll end up being any old De Sica.
To soothe the sleep of good Alessandro Gassman (who already imagined having to find space for him among the bastards of Pizzofalcone, who are not even watched in his building), his beloved son aptly decided to follow his dad’s path and, showing the same leonine courage of the parent (didn’t use Knaflits, the famous surname of the mother, “I want to walk alone, show what I’m worth” he declared proudly!), threw his heart over the hurdle and went to X factor.
So he sings? You’ll ask.
He sings? My response is.
Much like a diamond-patterned pullover gifted at Christmas or a 5-star hotel room with a view of the Land of Fires, our heir’s voice reminds us “that perhaps angels are all swallows,” warns us that “the
World turns with us you can never deny it,” and conquers us “remember you can live off me/ My dream and pain.”
And we, and you, and others?
Continue to enroll your children in Culinary Schools hoping one day they’ll go on to host Masterchef...
And try to sleep, if you can.
Signed and sealed: Lector
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Sherol Dos Santos - "I never had you but I've lost you" [Subtitle: "I won you but I had you"]
You can trim it as you wish... And bold it, savasan...Tks
'Did you remember to call the restaurant and add two seats for your mother's birthday?'.
Your (my, ndr) face slightly tightened is already an agenda, there's no need for you (me, ndr) to say anything, She knows you too well. Moreover, with Her it does not work: useless to make vaguely exculpatory faces, try to say today the day was possibly heavier than usual (have you ever noticed? Monday - BY DEFINITION - is the day when always the pains in the ass happen. Instead of having a normal weekend like everyone else, made of quickies with wives and goals on Sky, the professional troublemakers spend it planning YOUR pain in the ass, possibly already early in the morning). So, try (I try, ndr) not to make things worse, apologize, and call right away, it's better
(oh dear, better... those two cousins of yours to add, know-it-alls that know everything, you'd avoid them, like in that old Paolo Conte song*, god how he knew the things Paolo Conte).
Called, added, a hundred euros less at the end of the month because who pays is you (me, ndr) and the game is done.
Now, you can answer the call that matters most to you: that of the Car Wrecker Lord
[I'll avoid for brevity's sake - there are plenty of couples psychology treatises... - to explain WHAT will happen now while writing these lines]
Off we go
So, so: the Lord hires me - good knowing why, apart from that His creativity is like Maria Teresa Ruta’s smile for Sandro Ciotti: it knows no boundaries (hey Sa', that wasn't a lot...)** - for this grueling broken bones reckoning that will be the DeBaser's n-hands report and so on tripods of the ‘Commentarii of the Unpublished of the De Bello (bello?)
X-Factoro. In the dowry, I will have to test such
Sherol Dos Santos
Motivation (every award has its cause): 'I don't know what the reference deGenre is but the name reminds me of one of those half-eighies osé videos starring Renzo Montagnani'
(test. cit)
And so, I search and listen. No, actually, more or less by the 30'' I stop. Sorry, but here it will be the listening to be ZOT! Because she, who from brief online press review (ah, the net... for which Undersecretary Castelli passes as one who knows about Economy things), I said, online she is 'the soul voice that moved Mara Maionchi' (how is Mara Maionchi's moved voice must be?), the one knocking Agnelli about to faint (how is Agnelli in fainting risk?), the one now to everyone 'the new Beyoncé', well this Cape Verdean - but how? wasn't it Italians going to live in Cape Verde? - cute just enough, at the 30'' shows in that convention melisma with the consonants “doubled” and the “appoggiaturas” on nasals/dentals that are wider than any IKEA shelf.
Like 'Novvveeeemmbre...', in which Amoroso sings like Annalisa, who sings like Giusy Ferreri who sings (or tries to) like Amy Winehouse
etc.
Let's pretend that (everything is going fine)
And then I think back that in August Aretha left us
Ah, for the record, the piece is called 'I never had you but I've lost you'
Damn it, in my nonexistent and unenthusiastic career as a pseudo-reviewer, You, Sir, have even forced me to the detestable track-by-track. Note it on your conscience if you still have one.
*'Your Former Cousin'
** The names you, Lord, desired, like Paola Senatore or Dagmar Lassander, allow me, are MUCH more exciting than these talent-show strumpets. And when I return from that holy woman's birthday, my mother, a spin through 'I zombo, you zombo, they zombo' or maybe 'Where are you going if you have no kinks?' I'll surely give it a whirl.
It's this New-Soul Right!
‘I push!!!'
UH!
Signed and sealed: Imasoulman
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Luna - "Los Angeles" [Subtitle: "Fraction of Benetutti, everyone knows"]
Why a female voice for me?
What did I do wrong? I live on male, raspy voices. Cigarettes and drugs. Nights lived to exhaustion. Days spent crucified, nights spent cursing. That is my singer archetype. Page, Daltrey, Bon Scott, and above all Ozzy. Drifting brains, voices that move the soul.
Luna. Yeah, Luna. A girl who ventured into the music world with a great gift. A voice that gives chills to those who never lived Rock. So for me, it’s nothing much.
Indubitably a talent. Then, a pretty presence. The strength in hair like Samson (Quote). And XFactor. A show I've never seen in my life. Better a documentary on the medieval history of flip-flops.
Hoping she finds success and a neat sum in the bank.
Everything else is boredom.
Signed and sealed: Falloppio
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Bowland - "Don't Stop Me" [Subtitle: "Even if there's a precipice below"]
Unfortunately, for a couple of years, the Countess has been watching this indescribable puffery. During this time, I have headphones on with something nobly moldy or I play with the Contessa. Of course, something, unfortunately, reaches my ears, even worse, my eyes. Let it be clear: I have nothing against the boys and girls who “are trying”.
But I can't stand anything and anyone anymore, and you will immediately understand if I can’t bear such a thing. The kids are the only non-problem, actually, because they still have love and passion for what they do.
All the rest is bullshit: the crowd going wild over every minor event, and the four “judges”.
The afterhour guy who thought it good to act the kid at 50 years old to get that useless visibility he did not have as a “frontman” (the word rock doesn’t go with him, not even for money), the sympathetic but truly ridiculous mummy, now also with some unwatchable twenty-something makeup, the ruffled blond one I don’t know who he is and I don’t understand what he’s trying to say … that tattooed-all-neck one is the least worst in the end.. You decide.
But my drama is him.... him!!!! The “presenter”. Unbearable. Always talking, super fast, always happy... but happy for what?!
But do you see yourself?! Certainly, yes... and you are even “convincing”. His voice and insufferable chatter are my real nightmare; I hear and see him everywhere...
The Bowland don't seem bad. A handcrafted electronic with ethnic sounds... I don’t think they’re Italians (as Salvini would want) so looking a bit underweight ... perhaps Arab or something around there.
The singer is a mini (mini, mini) Hope Sandoval, a good timbre. Spirit and harmony seem not lacking ... it is this the right spirit! (quote).
My “favorites”, together with the “kid” with the bob (who seems honorably goofy) (and the boy who raps (or rhymes ... or burps), he’s really good ... so it seems ehhhh!
Signed and sealed: IlConte
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What do you say?
Naomi and her irreproachable "Like the Rain (Unpredictable)" is missing?
Blame it on that lazy Hellraiser (who will be Banned, ça va sans dire) and his outdated alchemy of mouldrock.
And anyway, no, the number of Campbell, even if we have it, we just can’t give it.
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