Reviewing the disc by the Italian "time machine," I feel like a weary traffic cop on H.G. Wells's trails — lazily waving my baton, I deflate the arrogance of particularly zealous rewriters of the past. Confusing? Let me explain more simply... How does one deal with these brilliant gentlemen who, in pursuit of the mirage of their own know-how, stubbornly rub their older brothers' CD collection like Aladdin's lamp? I don't know... To me, such babbling, only vaguely reminiscent of metal, isn't fit for pressing into vinyl molds, yet they press it, stick it in the studio freezer. Here, eat up. Sweet ice!!! Often with a dubious yellowish tinge... Why waste time, why waste money, sweating over distribution, promotion, signing contracts, when such material is only appropriate for Saturday rehearsals — get together, play, go home. But no, where, you ask, to put the ambitions!!! A remarkable fact — the more mediocre the talent, the greater and fiercer these ambitions. And the music born in the process — dull sonic eruptions, feeble and unnecessary, bearing little resemblance to the seething grandeur of the benchmark — the great and terrible RHAPSODY. What we get is this: here they tortured a guitar, there they pressed some keys (Lord, why did you add "String Ensemble" to the standard MIDI bank!!!) — here, eat up. Sweet ice!!! I already mentioned the dubious yellowish tinge above...
