It doesn’t come easy, not even in this silent and comfortable Sunday morning, home alone, not even with this bellaria that follows my better coffee, to measure up with All of which this silver disc implies, comprises, concludes. It comes down to my entire life, surely to my infancy. Every moan of the best music I know is meeting here, summa of an entire way of listening that has carried me for decades.

And then this aura, as if it were striving to touch me, well, I am down to commotion. For that small number of you, so distracted and innocently fool to have neglected it, could be the last chance, as in that old Texaco publicity, before the desert, before the void, the inaccessible future of the record production. To you, my respectable readers, I dedicate this tiny object that you can still easily get.

There is America here within, which by now exists only in the mind of the last immigrant who has left a country in war, destroyed even, a country for which is not worth the pain fighting anymore. Here within there is the America of our dreams, a great country crossed by straight roads, on which you cannot run too fast, sheltered by intense skies as to seem an indeed Different country. The country that maybe only aliens know.

In contemporary music there are essentially two big problems: the lack of market and the lack of function. You found yourself having to measure which one is more respectably measurable. I believe Jimi Hendrix, Joni Mitchell and Hank Williams would have real difficulties to assert themself in stardom today, I think that they would have to cover up in that old premises down in Sunset Boulevard, LA, in a nocturnal and soothed set. People would even love them because their group would play just like this inestimabile recording.