My things are not the salaries, cover them. I like to surprise in finding the license between the sheets in the open or inside a drawer and see things that did not even know to possess, then, usually, they are always crap in processed items.
photos. The old photos are a bit 'everywhere, in bulk, such as bread crumbs. I suck the old photos. I remember every time I see one. People change, not me, that's all. They change hair, change styles, fashions, expressions, and so grow old. Lucky them. I do not grow old. Never. Always the same, always the same expression, always the same type of clothes. Converse summer, jeans all year round. Montgomery in order for the cold, leather jacket for between seasons. At most, cardigans for the summer season. Consummated a stock if they buy another. A sort of Dylan Dog without the vocation of mystery and horror try in horror.
The other day I thought, flipping through old magazines, not mine. A special on so-called "Grunge", a go-go sadness. What a horrible picture. Colors horrible, amphibians at full blast, dropped to fuck socks, bandanas, shorts, pants of wool. I thought, if only one had dared to walk around the neighborhood dressed like this would purloin so many blows to rinsanire.
Yes, it's a nice neighborhood, nothing to say, but the problem is always the same. The problem is that being fashionable then finish out of fashion. The beauty and ugliness of being out of fashion is that you will always be out of fashion. In practice it is a negative-sum game, where you turn your nose something in his face ... musically speaking.
short, while there were those who insisted on singing the problems of addiction or a child who died - yes, the world is a vampire and blablabla - there were those who grew the Cock and his songs out of time printed on 7 ", split and compilation hyperbolic label so miserable that maybe have never even existed. It would be better, perhaps.
The Indian Summer were young and strong . The world would split in two, just a pity that they did not know what to make of the world. lasted little, almost two years, and failed to achieve even a disk. Only bulk parts that add up to nine pearls, 35 minutes, close relatives of a masterpiece. Science 1994, the Virgin Mary.
The formula is to mix post-rock of Slint with certain melodies fugaziane - Guy Piccioto uber alles -, the trend toward a more post-hardcore that sometimes airy and flowing and vulgarization s'incattivisce. All this is topped by an incredibly strong personality and a self that touches on the pathological. They called Emocore, a stupid name, that wherever you decide to try the same bullshit.
"Think You're The Train Is Leaving" , soft and lilting, twists on itself before the distortion free, after the voice becomes thin, small, dominated by a wall of guitars. A small man in something big. The interplay of guitar "Black / Touch The Wings Of An Angel ... Does not Mean You Can Fly" goes something like Fugazi who decide to coverizzare "Breadcumb Trail those who are giving up their sounds, then open the gas, melody, Na-Na-Na-Na.
The riffs "Are not You an Angel - first song of the first self-titled 7" - dilutes Helmet until they do not -exist up to lose them, make them disappear into the vulgar and chaotic "Millimiter" , with the voice that spits blood, was not even Mexican food. For "Woolworm / Angry Son" not suffice to describe a thousand tears, to tell of that guitar that insinuates itself, explores what should not be told ... a sort of "Washer" , that of Slint that always makes me almost cry. In the same beauty, made of the same feelings. "Sugar Pill" follows the same recipe: small, the background and then bully, imposing.
E 'ethereal music, as a "healthy" twenty year old can do something ethereal. Before you light and then heavy falls, tumbling falls. The music of Indian Summer, here, looks like a joyful dive off a cliff that ends in tragedy, with the plunger surface smashed on a rock that had not considered. There is something eerie and at the same time, solar, one dead and the people who continue to swim.
photos. The old photos are a bit 'everywhere, in bulk, such as bread crumbs. I suck the old photos. I remember every time I see one. People change, not me, that's all. They change hair, change styles, fashions, expressions, and so grow old. Lucky them. I do not grow old. Never. Always the same, always the same expression, always the same type of clothes. Converse summer, jeans all year round. Montgomery in order for the cold, leather jacket for between seasons. At most, cardigans for the summer season. Consummated a stock if they buy another. A sort of Dylan Dog without the vocation of mystery and horror try in horror.
The other day I thought, flipping through old magazines, not mine. A special on so-called "Grunge", a go-go sadness. What a horrible picture. Colors horrible, amphibians at full blast, dropped to fuck socks, bandanas, shorts, pants of wool. I thought, if only one had dared to walk around the neighborhood dressed like this would purloin so many blows to rinsanire.
Yes, it's a nice neighborhood, nothing to say, but the problem is always the same. The problem is that being fashionable then finish out of fashion. The beauty and ugliness of being out of fashion is that you will always be out of fashion. In practice it is a negative-sum game, where you turn your nose something in his face ... musically speaking.
short, while there were those who insisted on singing the problems of addiction or a child who died - yes, the world is a vampire and blablabla - there were those who grew the Cock and his songs out of time printed on 7 ", split and compilation hyperbolic label so miserable that maybe have never even existed. It would be better, perhaps.
The Indian Summer were young and strong . The world would split in two, just a pity that they did not know what to make of the world. lasted little, almost two years, and failed to achieve even a disk. Only bulk parts that add up to nine pearls, 35 minutes, close relatives of a masterpiece. Science 1994, the Virgin Mary.
The formula is to mix post-rock of Slint with certain melodies fugaziane - Guy Piccioto uber alles -, the trend toward a more post-hardcore that sometimes airy and flowing and vulgarization s'incattivisce. All this is topped by an incredibly strong personality and a self that touches on the pathological. They called Emocore, a stupid name, that wherever you decide to try the same bullshit.
"Think You're The Train Is Leaving" , soft and lilting, twists on itself before the distortion free, after the voice becomes thin, small, dominated by a wall of guitars. A small man in something big. The interplay of guitar "Black / Touch The Wings Of An Angel ... Does not Mean You Can Fly" goes something like Fugazi who decide to coverizzare "Breadcumb Trail those who are giving up their sounds, then open the gas, melody, Na-Na-Na-Na.
The riffs "Are not You an Angel - first song of the first self-titled 7" - dilutes Helmet until they do not -exist up to lose them, make them disappear into the vulgar and chaotic "Millimiter" , with the voice that spits blood, was not even Mexican food. For "Woolworm / Angry Son" not suffice to describe a thousand tears, to tell of that guitar that insinuates itself, explores what should not be told ... a sort of "Washer" , that of Slint that always makes me almost cry. In the same beauty, made of the same feelings. "Sugar Pill" follows the same recipe: small, the background and then bully, imposing.
E 'ethereal music, as a "healthy" twenty year old can do something ethereal. Before you light and then heavy falls, tumbling falls. The music of Indian Summer, here, looks like a joyful dive off a cliff that ends in tragedy, with the plunger surface smashed on a rock that had not considered. There is something eerie and at the same time, solar, one dead and the people who continue to swim.
- Aren't You an Angel
- Black/Touch the Wings of an Angels... Doesn't Mean You Can Fly
- I Think Your Train is Leaving
- Millimeter
- Orchard
- Reflections On Milkweed
- Sugar Pill
- Truman
- Woolworm/Angry Son
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