Five and a half minutes of binary phlegm and broken funny bones by two Berlin-based Italians, one of which is already known for being a real brat. Claudio Rocchetti has given the likes of David Lee Roth and Harrison Ford a bad name in the past by applying their respected identities to cinematic albums they’d never want to be associated with. This time the hapless target is the speckled late-80s gem by Albano Carrisi, its central namesake lyric here rendered with slowed-down and synthetic insanity towards the end of this short-lived transaction on business-card CDR.

Expectorated antibodies of harsh staccato glitter, plundered police-radio static and frustrated boom-chick sibilance supplies the album’s first half with a fickly meditative and surprisingly humane palpation, its freckled, repetitive beats going into autistic overload on a track that at 2 minutes and ten seconds, is contextually epic. Olyvetty make every second count, the music’s arithmetic precision echoed in the accompanying notes where track lengths are timed right down to the millisecond. Things aren’t as minimally invasive and surgical as they could be, however, and the cyclical micro-terrains start to feel a bit gymnastic after an albeit contracted while. Looped percussive polka-snot trails on ad infinitum on the 25-second penultimate track, and the immediate gratification of its liposuctioned procedure goes a bit pale after the initial high. The clicked and licked punctuality of its harsh minimal-tech rhymes soon feels a little carbon-copied, which is quite an achievement considering the whole anaerobically brief work-out. The introduction of the dubbed-out MC Stephen Hawking karaoke towards the conclusion is cringingly incongruous, its horrific bass-baritone delivery superceding the already-pathological din. It’s an uninviting final impression to give, not that you’d want to be friends with these guys anyway. And for this reason it’s probably good that the whole experience doesn’t last too long.
5/10 -- E.R. Chatterton (20 August, 2009)