Sooner or later it was bound to happen. They are those unforeseen occurrences that suddenly and unexpectedly appear inside your auricle that make the history of Italian music. “History” with an incorruptibly lowercase “h”; because it’s the fact that its lowercase that changes our cultural existence. That unanticipated oversight that comes bursting through, that unwanted error that rises up with absolute certainty. The minimum common divisor becomes huge in the mainstream imagination. The philosophical garbage heap for the underclass perpetually suffering from symptoms of withdrawal from everywhere and anyway. Maurizio Marsico, the magnificent mistake of Italian music. An absolute master at running decades of contemporary music through the spin cycle in the pressure cooker of post-modern madness. Inadvertently. Since the end of the seventies, he has been silently leading the way for Italian cultural processes, giddily mastering them and tossing them to people who are hungry but have no digestive apparatus, aimlessly displaced in the outskirts of nothingness. From Milan to New York. Then there’s Stefano Di Trapani, the absolute presence of the “other cultures” that have traversed the first twenty years of the 2000s. Without Di Trapani (often masquerading under the pseudonym Demented Burrocacao), Rome would have failed to dictate forms and methods within the architecture of international sound. He is an absolute manipulator of compliant thought and a declared destroyer of the planetary rules of sound. He is also a member of the cultural underclass in the wretched realm of absolute certainties. Together they created Greatest Nots, an encyclopedic crib sheet of what was, is and will be missing from Italian music. A Hahnemann-esque project where forty years of splinters of Italian music have been diluted and dynamized. A homeopathic process carried out by two alchemists who are totally unaware of the processes that led to the creation of the homunculus, settling for just his hearing apparatus and his hypothalamus. Like modern butchers, they offer us the rotten meat of Italian music, blood, and fat to feed the proletariat crushed by contemporary simultaneity. Everything is so that everything returns, in distorted yet fascinating and obsessive forms. Things that make the “newness” we’re drowning in look like the sludge extracted from the sewers of a modern psychiatric facility. Nothing will be as it was before because what there was before never existed. Cover illustration by Enrico Infidel D’Elia and Simone Tso.

Limited to 300 copies

Brand new, never played, unsealed