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Rating: The small but captivating YouTube channel of the young degenerate rapper who goes by the name Pisciatoio (see my review from some time ago) is a treasure chest of gems you won't find elsewhere.
Last summer, among others, these Zoccopop tracks came out and I completely missed them. How come? Repressed, Freud-style?
A gripping track, worthy of the other female stars who are friends with Pisciatoio (like Dolcefida), always in that breezy, pop-rock vein that doesn't hold back with four-on-the-floor guitar riffs and wraps everything up in less than two minutes. Music for rapid and wide consumption. The brilliant idea here is a fake product—Pussy Cola—which lends itself to a thousand allusive allegories and metaphors.
Backed by a music video made with A.I., colorful and skirting the edges of decency, the track is one of those tunes you find yourself humming right after and that keeps buzzing in your head for days.
Non la bevo da sola, non la bevo con te, mi ci faccio il bidet...
Pussy Cola che mi scorre in bocca, mi rinfresca la gola e dopo anche la gnocca....
Just to say: a couple excerpts from the magical verses that the young Zoccopop girls belted out between one riff and another. No need for too much fanfare, since the lyrics are matched by clear imagery (a pristine teenager's bed crowded with candy-pink dildos and vibrators)
Me la voglio godere, mi ci faccio un clistere...
No inhibitions here, because Pussy Cola is the top-shelf drink, the elixir that combines the pleasures of taste with the pleasures of every other part of the body. And the atmosphere stays glamorous even when the allusions get so physical, because the girls in the quintet are cute, sparkling, likeable—the ideal next-door neighbors all of us would have liked to have at twenty.
Italian music is in crisis; Sanremo is jam-packed with shoo-ins and runaways, stale ideas peddled as innovations, a market ruled by a vacuum masquerading as high art. But isn't anyone signing Zoccopop? Projects like this are exactly what should be promoted and supported if we want to save pop as a true mirror of a present that's only colorful on the surface.
I'm certain that if Brian Wilson had lived just a little longer—long enough to stumble across the Zoccopop—he would have chosen them as heirs to his Beach Boys.
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