Ormai c'ho sta bara in casa da un po'. Sì, una bara, va bene? Ci appoggio la tisana, il pandoro al gianduia avanzato da natale e i portaceneri che strabordano come i spaghi di Alberto Sordi. Ormai non sto neanche più lì a pulirla dalla polvere. La accarezzo e penso a quanto la famiglia ci tiene, This medium-sized skeleton held together by skin coming up on bread and GranBiscotto Rovagnati. There I put my ear and I hear echoes of the word that gave me less joy in life. We walk the hill, and I think that the sizzle of piling Leolino surely will agree to pay my account in the Cayman Islands.
Everything is born of this song Kepsah here that says, For Christ
of a god I'm still here why the fuck I do not move, do not emigrate I feel bound to this place that gives me nothing I beaches but there are I would like the mountains but I have I want a people not accustomed via television and fucking no! I feel understood by those who look at us but instead Mars does not understand and is transparent Norway but we are blacks such as bags of gangs We are beautiful, intelligent and closed as the valleys where we come we are filled with history as the air we breathe now if you do there are only cocaine! We throw everything overboard and sing to the glory of that we still have Italy do not share anything except Mike Bongiorno like all as I could be less am a child of television are a child of the TV I do not want E 'the victory of good over the forces of evil government of doing against his shadow we should burn the Constitution federalism! presidentialism! and then everything is fine there is inflation, the crisis but I can still addicted to television
I'm a fan of the first hour of Kepsah, text meticulous, almost baroque, with lots of good words chiseled, each weighing no accident, tests started from the proposition and introspection and landed finally telling stories both serious and evocative to listen with ears cocked to the left and vocabulary in his right hand. I'm a fan of the first hour of the guitar between the primitive and the mathematician, the bass solo that would draw a second guitar, drums dry but elegant.
The disc is thus called Stack, begins with a list of torture and ends with a beheading, through stories about the Great War , messages and programmatic landscapes evoked (vi). The package is what you see before Sebastiano Martinelli, the leader crowned by some newspapers and then disowned by the band.
But this song is different, is a step towards new Kepsah: unforgiving, unrelenting Bersagliera, with a text that goes to the present and future and is both internal motion, wholesome effort, lucid description. (On the Internet there is not, you tap the ccomprare cd, discreet public, touch you)
My mission is to dress the naked Kepsah of socks (in the best tradition youporn) rock and underpants (boxer Kepsah with Tool, Zeta hill underwear years Spor 70 of the River, with Dave Rancid and oversized boxer Pero el boxer with modern de Jovanotti, those with a yellow border and soleluna back), put them on top of the Paganella with the coffin on the edge of the abyss that run around like the monkeys 2001 A Space Odyssey, knocking and beating and peeing on the hard dress declaiming the coffin with the air of one who has filled his balls and comic books that come out of mouths that say friend, listeners!
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