Yello
Claro Que Si

An unexpected entity suddenly materialized, unforeseen by anyone, and like Creation, it gives the impression that it has always existed.

It's an annoying impression, like when your underwear gets caught between your buttocks under your jeans, and the discomfort persists because you can't adjust them from the outside. It becomes more and more irritating, but always at the limit of endurance, where you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown but you go on.

And when you sit in the car or on the bus, the masochistic itch intensifies, and that sensation of pseudo-sodomitic tickling makes you mentally question for a moment whether it might not be displeasing, instilling mental confusion about a latent homosexuality that catches you off guard as it reveals an unexpected objective truth, considering the inner and external lies we are constantly immersed in. The horror that you might "be" unexpected things, from that Prince Charming you think you are, takes over the involuntary organ of breathing, and not only that.

The breathlessness is also "thanks" to geoengineering, which changes your mood by 1) creating climate conditions (officially since 1948) to invoke "tsunamis inside and outside of you," making you at least LGBT+, and 2) random MK Ultra where one day it whispers that you should take it up the ass, the next that we've been to the moon, and the day after tomorrow that you should forget your infant child inside the car under the August sun, so the Vatican pedosatanist cannibal Molochians can have a ready-cooked serving of newborn ribs.

As I was saying, there's this appearance of a character who totally masters the ultimate science of mystification. What teleports you into a perpetual mobile state of not knowing what to do in his presence (and soon in his absence) presents itself as a certain Luca Scazzi and his Canepardo!

The result of adding the supreme rogue barber for love of truth transforms the 'sti (S)cazzi into Me Cojoni!, where the fools, plain and simple (and forever), remain all those who take things seriously and as frustrated individuals want to condemn everything their little heads can't understand, discriminating and snitching: "Lord forgive them, for they know not what they COVIDdo," but at least an instant karma detaching their dicks and bouncing back into their asses would be delightful for us, millennial Dharma wanderers, to witness the recoil.

It's a way of making culture invisibly sublime, an other intelligence, don't worry if it doesn't entertain you, it's not for everyone; the seven years of Pythagorean silence pout few can carry on: do not take the name of Nonsichiama in vain, indeed.

Here, it's not understood that we need titled psychopaths who dismember at a quantum level the little brains that think they've figured out how things work and focus, in a democrat pederast way, on the desire to make loads of money and play golf.

Instead, fractally dividing our frottage paraphilias and our frugivorous diets brings us to a slithering in the Grace of God, away from the 18 "holes" the system would have us take.

And then you would say, what does all this have to do with the album? But first of all, you need to stop asking questions, what's with all this familiarity! Well now...
Answers, more answers you should give yourselves, preferably as soon as possible behind the mirror, not behind... you slackers and debauchees that you are.

And if I speak of mystification, a little effort needs to be made in tracing psycho tangents (not those that the Italian mafia state demands in the form of taxes, which are nothing but extortion rackets by usurers who self-promote as official big shots) where the connection of the Yello with what I've written up to now is evident in realizing that first of all, they publish for Ralph and therefore had at least company brunches with Residents, Snakefinger, and "affiliates" (and I'll stop here with the ocular banalities), then they are Swiss, and we put a cross on it, then the little sparrowhawk mustaches of premeditated disgusting kitsch, not indifferent, then those shiny soap-dealer faces that sell on the main square any panacea branded Wanna Marchi, including those famous underpants that went into your buttocks without washing, naturally...

But mainly the album title, which says it all, completing a cum laude degree of well-rounded pranksters who daze, as only true mystifiers know how, with the sound quality produced. And you're there, bewildered, rationally trying to find the end of the skein, but which (ta)sk. It doesn't work that way...

With these so-called fraudsters, you have to approach already "broken," otherwise, the logical thread the system trained you to follow will fool you into believing that at the return from the thread, there's a good Ariadne with whom you'll have a mega shag after the mythological minotauric feat, thinking you're "the man who never needs to ask" the aftershave, sseee... And instead, from the labyrinth comes a fool with a "thing" taurine that does it like a bucket, for your little derriere. See the turns of life? Go trust logic, go...

But luckily with those from Zurich, even if they ask you for money, we are in an iron barrel and chastity belt against screwing of an unexpectedly humane compassionate dimension. In their metaverse, the aroma of crap remains intact Deo Gratias!

So let us "make a charm of all the grass" that born-to-be-rogues we're: are we men or canepards?

"Ask and it shall be given to you"... CLARO QUE SÌ!