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Quando pronunciamo il nome Sanremo, non evochiamo soltanto una località della Riviera ligure. Ormai quel toponimo è diventato altro: è la scorciatoia linguistica con cui indichiamo il Festival di Sanremo, rito mediatico collettivo che ogni anno monopolizza l’attenzione nazionale. Il nome della città ha divorato il suo significato originario: non più solo luogo geografico, ma marchio, simbolo, evento. La parte si è trasformata nel tutto; il contenitore ha preso il posto del contenuto.

Ed è proprio questa trasformazione a suscitare perplessità. Chi apprezza la città reale — i suoi scorci, la sua storia, la sua dimensione quotidiana — può provare disagio nel vederla ridotta a sfondo di una gigantesca macchina televisiva. Per una settimana il Teatro Ariston, normalmente sala di provincia con programmazione ordinaria, diventa il centro simbolico del Paese. Non si tratta soltanto di musica: è un palcoscenico su cui l’Italia mette in mostra se stessa, con le sue mode, le sue ossessioni, le sue liturgie ideologiche.

Le canzoni finiscono spesso in secondo piano. Intorno proliferano talk show, conferenze stampa, polemiche, dichiarazioni politiche, interventi a effetto. Il festival si trasforma in un grande contenitore di opinioni e posture morali. L’importante non è tanto la qualità artistica quanto la presenza scenica, la visibilità, la partecipazione al rito. Essere lì — sul palco o nei commenti — vale più che vincere.

A orchestrare il tutto c’è RAI, che concentra risorse e attenzione mediatica in un’operazione capace di garantire ascolti imponenti e ricavi pubblicitari. Per quei giorni la concorrenza sembra dissolversi: le altre reti parlano comunque del festival, contribuendo ad amplificarne l’eco. Sfuggirvi diventa quasi impossibile, a meno di rinunciare a televisione, radio, giornali e conversazioni sociali. Sanremo si impone come argomento unico, calamita totale dell’interesse collettivo.

A pochi passi dall’Ariston, la statua di Mike Bongiorno ricorda un’epoca diversa, quando la manifestazione appariva più lineare: un presentatore, una cartellina, le canzoni al centro e quell’“Allegria!” che è rimasto nella memoria televisiva italiana. Colpisce che la città celebri con tanta evidenza un volto dello spettacolo mentre figure come Italo Calvino o Giovanni Domenico Cassini, pure legate a Sanremo, ricevano un’attenzione incomparabilmente minore. È il segno di una gerarchia culturale in cui la ribalta televisiva pesa più della letteratura o della scienza.

Nel frattempo, già nei giorni precedenti l’evento, la città cambia fisionomia: controlli rafforzati, palchi collaterali, spazi occupati, attività penalizzate dalla logistica stravolta. I residenti si adattano; qualcuno ne paga il prezzo in termini di disagi e lavoro rallentato. Ma la macchina procede spedita, perché i numeri la premiano: share elevati, sponsor soddisfatti, centralità culturale riaffermata.

Il punto, allora, non è soltanto musicale. Il festival funziona come specchio e insieme come megafono: riflette un certo modo di intendere la società e al tempo stesso lo consolida. Piaccia o no, diventa una celebrazione collettiva in cui il Paese si riconosce e si rassicura.

Resta sempre la possibilità di sottrarsi: spegnere lo schermo, aprire un libro, scegliere un teatro o una cena tranquilla mentre l’attenzione generale è altrove. Le canzoni, se valide, sopravvivranno comunque oltre la settimana di clamore. Tutto il resto — polemiche, slogan, dichiarazioni — svanirà con la stessa rapidità con cui è esploso.

Eppure, ogni anno, la formula si ripete immutata: Sanremo non è più soltanto una città, ma un evento totale, un’abitudine nazionale, un marchio che finisce per oscurare il luogo da cui prende il nome.

E la verità è che Sanremo non ci serve proprio a niente, se non che a rinnovare con cadenza annuale il voto di obbedienza ad un sistema di controllo sociale che fa della mediocrità e dell’osceno il suo rito di consacrazione per l’intera nazione. Spetta a noi decidere se vogliamo continuare ad essere le vittime di questo rito.

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Roger Waters ha una nuova canzone. Si intitola Sumud. Una ballata, ma non una ballata qualsiasi: un inno senza tempo alla resistenza. D’ora in poi, queste note e il loro grido di battaglia dovrebbero idealmente attraversare lo spettro globale dal Mali a Giava, forgiando una già nascente Alleanza Globale di Resistenza.

Con delicatezza, quasi sussurrando, creando un’atmosfera alla Leonard Cohen, Roger inizia introducendo “Sumud” in arabo: “perseveranza incrollabile”. Come nella Resistenza non violenta di tutti i giorni, a tutti i livelli, contro l’occupazione, lo sfruttamento e la colonizzazione brutale e forzata della Palestina. Ma la posta in gioco è ancora più grande, più grande della vita stessa, quando evoca come “le voci si uniscono in armonia” fino al coro positivo e catartico. La resistenza contro l’ingiustizia, concettualmente, dovrebbe implicare il profondo impegno di tutti noi.

Roger evoca i martiri da Rachel Corrie a Marielle Franco – “oh mie sorelle / aiutatemi ad aprire i loro occhi” – colmando il divario “attraverso la grande divisione” fino a raggiungere uno stato di consapevolezza in cui “la ragione raggiunge la maturità”.

Il tema persistente e ipnotico di ‘Sumud’ è la lotta per raggiungere quello stadio di coscienza collettiva “quando le voci si uniscono in armonia”.

Mentre «seguiamo la nostra bussola morale», le voci inevitabilmente arriveranno a un punto in cui «saranno spalla a spalla». E «dal fiume al mare», «la gente comune che semplicemente difende la propria posizione» è e sarà in grado di lasciare il segno.

Le lunghe nuvole scure che si abbattono ripetutamente non intimidiscono l’intuizione di Roger. Egli sceglie di chiudere “Sumud” nel modo più auspicio, evocando parallelismi con il buddismo: “Insieme, queste persone comuni / invertiranno la rotta della nave”.

Come invertire la rotta della nave

L’idea che un collettivo di persone comuni sia in grado di invertire la rotta dell’attuale nave di (pericolosi) folli non potrebbe essere più in contrasto con la demenza totalmente orchestrata dall’oligarchia del totalitarismo liberale e del tecno-feudalesimo, completamente fuori controllo e deciso a normalizzare persino il genocidio e la fame forzata. Questo paradigma è destinato a intimidire, molestare, demoralizzare e distruggere proprio queste “persone comuni”.

Roger, con una semplice ballata, dimostra che ribaltare il gioco può essere possibile. Questa intuizione arriva con l’età, l’esperienza e la padronanza del proprio mestiere. Roger, dopotutto, fin dagli anni ’60 è una delle incarnazioni principali dell’intuizione di Shelley secondo cui i poeti sono “i legislatori sconosciuti dell’umanità”.

Molti di noi hanno trascorso la giovinezza affascinati dall’inesauribile esplorazione e dalla gioia sperimentale contenute in “Relics”, ‘Ummagumma’ o “Meddle”, anche prima della spedizione spaziale sul lato oscuro della luna.

Su più livelli, “Sumud” può essere inteso come un’eco contemporanea di – cosa se no – l’epica esperienza trascendentale “Echoes”, il cui testo è fondamentale quanto il viaggio musicale: “Stranieri che passano per strada / Per caso, due sguardi separati si incontrano / E io sono te e quello che vedo sono io / E ti prendo per mano / E ti conduco attraverso la terra / E mi aiuti a capire il meglio che posso?”

La Londra della fine degli anni ’60 incontra la Resistenza Globale della metà degli anni ’20: è tutta una questione di interconnessione umana. E una volta che ciò accade, non c’è nulla di più nobile che tendere verso uno scopo più alto.

È lo stesso spirito già presente in “Us and Them”: “Con, senza / e chi lo negherà / è questo il senso della lotta”.

La lotta che definisce il nostro tempo è come invertire la rotta di un culto della morte, che agisce nell’impunità, in grado di scatenare un potenziale omicida equivalente a 12 bombe atomiche su Hiroshima su una popolazione incessantemente sottoposta ad assassinii seriali, carestie e stermini calcolati, in diretta su tutti gli smartphone del mondo, e tutto questo con la benedizione dell’Occidente collettivo.

È possibile guidare la lotta solo brandendo – e cantando – una ballata? Forse no. Ma è un inizio potente. Resistete. Perseverate. Come gli Houthi nello Yemen – acclamati come eroi etici, con un chiaro scopo morale, dalla Maggioranza Globale. Il messaggio edificante di Roger è che un giorno quella nave marcia affonderà.

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Roger Waters has got a brand new song. It’s called Sumud. A ballad, but not just another ballad: actually a timeless Hymn to Resistance. From now on, these sounds, and their rallying cry, should ideally straddle the global spectrum from Mali to Java, forging an already budding Global Resistance Alliance.

Gently, nearly whispering, setting up a Leonard Cohen-esque mood, Roger starts by introducing “Sumud” in Arabic: “steadfast perseverance”. As in non-violent everyday Resistance, at every level, against the occupation, exploitation and vicious, forced colonization of Palestine. But what’s at stake is even bigger, larger than life, as he evokes how “voices join in harmony” all the way to the positive, cathartic chorus. Resistance against injustice, conceptually, should imply the profound commitment of all of us.

Roger evokes martyrs from Rachel Corrie to Marielle Franco – “oh my sisters / help me to open their eyes” – bridging gaps “across the great divide” all the way to a state of awareness as “reason comes of age”.

The persistent, hypnotic theme of “Sumud” is the struggle to reach that stage of collective consciousness “when voices join in harmony”.

As we “follow our moral compass”, voices inevitably will come to a point of “standing shoulder to shoulder”. And “from the river to the sea”, “ordinary people just standing their ground” are and will be able to make their mark.

The long dark clouds comin’ down, over and over again, do not intimidate Roger’s intuition. He chooses to close “Sumud” in the most auspicious manner, evoking parallels with Buddhism: “Together these ordinary people /they will turn the ship around”.

How to turn the ship around

The notion of an ordinary people’s collective being able to turn the current ship of (dangerous) fools around could not be more at odds with the fully oligarch-orchestrated dementia of liberal totalitarianism cum techno-feudalism, totally out of control and bent on normalizing even genocide and forced starvation. This paradigm is set to intimidate, harass, demoralize and destroy exactly these “ordinary people”.

Roger, with a simple ballad, shows that turning the game around may be in the realm of the possible. This insight comes with age, experience, and mastery of one’s craft. Roger, after all, since the 1960s is one of the prime embodiments of Shelley’s intuition about poets being “the unknown legislators of mankind”.

Many of us spent our younger days mesmerized by the ceaseless exploration and experimental overjoy contained in “Relics”, Ummagumma” or “Meddle” – even before the outer space expedition to the Dark Side of the Moon.

On several layers, “Sumud” can be apprehended as a contemporary echo of – what else – the epic transcendental experience “Echoes” , whose lyrics are as crucial as the musical voyage: “Strangers passing in the street / By chance, two separate glances meet / And I am you and what I see is me / And do I take you by the hand / And lead you through the land / And help me understand the best I can?”

London in the late 1960s meets the Global Resistance in the mid-2020s: it’s all about human inter-connection. And once that happens, nothing is more noble than reaching towards a higher purpose.

It’s the same spirit already present in “Us and Them”: “With, without / and who’ll deny / it’s what the fighting’s all about.”

The defining fight of our time is how to turn the ship around from a death cult, with impunity, being able to unleash a homicidal potential equivalent to 12 atomic bombs in Hiroshima on a population ceaselessly subjected to serial assassination, famine and calculated extermination – live, on every smartphone across the world, and all that fully blessed by the collective West.

Is it possible to lead the fight just by brandishing – and singing – a ballad? Perhaps not. But that’s an almighty start. Resist. Persevere. Like the Houthis in Yemen – hailed as ethical heroes, with a clear moral purpose, by the Global Majority. Roger’s uplifting message is that one day, that rotten ship will sink.

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Roger Waters has voiced his support for Palestine Action, risking prosecution, and a potential 14-year jail term, by doing so, as the organisation is now proscribed as a terrorist group in the UK under the Terrorism Act 2000.

As of Saturday, July 5, membership of Palestine Action, or expressing public support for the group, is a criminal offence in Britain. On July 5, police in London arrested 29 people in Parliament Square for holding placards stating, “I oppose genocide, I support Palestine Action”.

In the video posted on his social media channels on July 5, former Pink Floyd legend Waters says, “For the record, I support Palestine Action”, calling the pressure group “a great organisation”, and sharing his belief that the “non-violent” group are “absolutely not terrorists in any way.”

Speaking from his studio, Waters then flips the camera on his phone to display a piece of cardboard on which he has written the words, ‘ROGER WATERS SUPPORT PALESTINE ACTION’ beneath which he added “Parliament has been corrupted by agents of a genocidal foreign power! STAND UP AND BE COUNTED. IT’S NOW!!!”

The cardboard is dated “5th July 2025.”

Original article: loudersound.com

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Durante minha mais recente viagem como correspondente ao Donbass, pude testemunhar um fenômeno que, embora muitas vezes negligenciado nas narrativas ocidentais sobre o conflito, se revela crucial para compreender a dinâmica da guerra em curso: o ataque sistemático à cultura russa. Nos campos de batalha, onde os enfrentamentos militares e as perdas humanas são os maiores focos de atenção, existe uma outra frente de combate que visa apagar a herança cultural de uma região profundamente ligada – e que sempre pertenceu – à Rússia.

Em minha visita, fui até a escola de música de Volnovakha, nos subúrbios de Donetsk, um centro cultural histórico que é símbolo da resistência psicológica e espiritual da população local. A escola, como tantos outros centros de cultura na região, se tornou um alvo estratégico das forças ucranianas. Em 2022, com o início das ações russas, a resposta de Kiev foi brutal: uma campanha de destruição e limpeza étnica nos subúrbios de Donetsk, que afetou duramente as vilas de Volnovakha.

As forças de Kiev, no entanto, optaram por não destruir completamente a escola de música, como fizeram com muitas das casas vizinhas. Em vez disso, transformaram o local em uma base militar improvisada. Para os professores e alunos da escola, essa ação foi vista como um ataque não apenas físico, mas também espiritual: uma forma de violência contra a própria identidade e a cultura local.

O termo “assassinato espiritual” resume perfeitamente os testemunhos que ouvi das professoras da escola. Esta expressão captura perfeitamente a sensação de impotência e dor enfrentada por aqueles que viam suas vidas sendo marcadas pela guerra, não apenas pelas perdas humanas, mas pela destruição de tudo o que representava sua história e cultura. A presença de soldados ucranianos nas instalações da escola tornou-se um lembrete diário do sofrimento imposto à população, com os combatentes se abrigando no local enquanto continuavam a sua missão de matar e destruir os parentes e vizinhos dos professores e alunos da escola.

Entretanto, a liberação da região por parte das forças russas ainda em 2022 trouxe uma reviravolta. A escola de música de Volnovakha foi restaurada e revitalizada. No momento em que visitei o local, a escola estava mais ativa do que nunca, havendo até mesmo um time de jovens músicos de Volnovakha se apresentando naquele exato dia em um festival na Sibéria, mostrando a importância cultural da região para o resto da Rússia. Os professores com quem conversei me contaram como a música se tornou uma ferramenta fundamental para ajudar os jovens a superarem os traumas da guerra, especialmente aqueles que perderam pais ou familiares nos ataques constantes ucranianos. A música, nesse contexto, tornou-se um pilar de resistência, uma forma de manter viva a alma da região, em meio ao caos.

Essa não é uma realidade exclusiva de Volnovakha. No centro de Donetsk, conversei com os membros do grupo musical Zveroboi, uma banda local que percorre a Rússia tocando músicas patrióticas e tradicionais. O que os músicos compartilharam comigo foi comovente: assim como os jovens da escola de música, eles também usaram a música como uma forma de lidar com o trauma e, mais importante ainda, para fortalecer seu vínculo com a pátria. A música se tornou uma expressão de resistência, de patriotismo, e uma forma de mobilizar a sociedade russa contra a agressão externa.

Durante a conversa com os membros do Zveroboi, perguntei-lhes sobre o sonho de tocar em um “desfile da vitória” após o fim do conflito. A resposta foi clara: sim, estariam lá, mas não sabiam se seria em Kiev ou em Berlim, considerando a possível expansão da guerra para a Europa em razão do intervencionismo da EU na Ucrânia. A música, portanto, se transformou em um símbolo de união e mobilização, e também em um lembrete de que, embora a guerra destrua muitas coisas, a cultura de um povo tem uma capacidade incrível de resistir.

O ataque à cultura russa no Donbass não é apenas uma questão de destruição de patrimônios materiais, mas de tentar apagar a identidade de uma população inteira. O que vejo, porém, é que a resistência cultural, alimentada por esses jovens músicos e professores, continua firme. Cada nota tocada e cada canção cantada é um ato de resistência. A música não só cura as feridas, mas também mantém viva a chama da identidade e da cultura russa em uma região devastada pela guerra.

The Ukrainian neo-Nazi regime attempts in every way possible to destroy the spiritual and cultural symbols of the Russian civilization.

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During my most recent trip as a correspondent to Donbass, I witnessed a phenomenon that, although often neglected in Western narratives about the conflict, proves to be crucial for understanding the dynamics of the ongoing war: the systematic attack on Russian culture. On the battlefields, where military confrontations and human losses are the main focus of attention, there is another front of combat aimed at erasing the cultural heritage of a region deeply linked —and that has always belonged — to Russia.

On my visit, I went to the music school in Volnovakha, on the outskirts of Donetsk, a historic cultural center that symbolizes the psychological and spiritual resistance of the local population. The school, like many other cultural centers in the region, became a strategic target for the Ukrainian forces. In 2022, with the start of Russian actions, Kiev’s response was brutal: a campaign of destruction and ethnic cleansing in the suburbs of Donetsk, which severely affected the villages of Volnovakha.

However, the Kiev forces chose not to completely destroy the music school, as they did with many of the neighboring houses. Instead, they turned the site into an improvised military base. For the teachers and students at the school, this action was seen not only as a physical attack but also as a spiritual one: a form of violence against their very identity and local culture.

The term “spiritual murder” perfectly summarizes the testimonies I heard from the teachers at the school. This expression accurately captures the sense of helplessness and pain faced by those who saw their lives marked by war, not only through human losses but also through the destruction of everything that represented their history and culture. The presence of Ukrainian soldiers on the school premises became a daily reminder of the suffering imposed on the population, with the fighters sheltering there while continuing their mission to kill and destroy the relatives and neighbors of the teachers and students.

However, the liberation of the region by Russian forces in 2022 brought a reversal. The Volnovakha music school was restored and revitalized. When I visited the site, the school was more active than ever, with even a group of young musicians from Volnovakha performing that very day at a festival in Siberia, showing the cultural importance of the region to the rest of Russia. The teachers I spoke with told me how music had become a fundamental tool to help the youth overcome the traumas of war, especially those who lost parents or relatives in the constant Ukrainian attacks. In this context, music became a pillar of resistance, a way to keep the spirit of the region alive amid the chaos.

This is not a reality exclusive to Volnovakha. In the center of Donetsk, I spoke with the members of the musical group Zveroboi, a local band that travels across Russia performing patriotic and traditional songs. What the musicians shared with me was emotional: just like the young students at the music school, they also used music as a way to deal with trauma and, more importantly, to strengthen their ties to their homeland. Music became an expression of resistance, patriotism, and a way to mobilize Russian society against external aggression.

During my conversation with the members of Zveroboi, I asked them about their dream of performing at a “Victory Parade” once the conflict ends. The answer was clear: yes, they would be there, but they did not know whether it would be in Kiev or (once again) Berlin, considering the possible expansion of the war into Europe due to EU intervention in Ukraine. Therefore, music transformed into a symbol of unity and mobilization, and also a reminder that, although war destroys many things, the culture of a people has an incredible capacity to resist.

The attack on Russian culture in Donbass is not just about the destruction of material heritage but an attempt to erase the identity of an entire population. What I see, however, is that cultural resistance, fueled by these young musicians and teachers, remains strong. Every note played and every song sung is an act of resistance. Music not only heals wounds but also keeps the flame of Russian identity and culture alive in a region devastated by war.

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Ogni anno la stessa storia

Diciamoci la verità: Sanremo è Sanremo, il che vuol dire che sappiamo tutti come funziona e cosa implica, ma ci va bene così, perché in fin dei conti è uno spettacolo che si riesce a mandar giù, anche se non si è d’accordo con quello che trasmette.

Qui sta il problema, l’enorme problema del Festival della Propaganda, ops, della Musica italiana: c’ un pubblico che, bene o male, lo guarda. Senza quel pubblico, smetterebbe di esistere subito, come avviene per tutti i programmi televisivi. Sanremo, anzi, è forse LO spettacolo televisivo rimasto che riesce ad accumunar grandi e piccini davanti alla TV, uno strumento ormai in disuso generazionale.

Sanremo è sia una sineddoche che una metonimia. Per dirla in modo semplice, sono quei meccanismi – linguistici e psicologici – attraverso cui, dopo aver stabilito un legame tra due concetti distinti ma interconnessi, il nome di uno viene usato al posto dell’altro (sineddoche). Così, Sanremo non è più semplicemente una città, ma è diventato sinonimo di un evento popolare per eccellenza: il Festival della Canzone Italiana. Si tratta di un vero e proprio slittamento di significato (metonimia), il procedimento per cui un termine viene trasferito da un ambito all’altro, come nel caso della città che finisce per identificarsi con la manifestazione musicale.

Per una settimana, il palco dell’Ariston – un normale cinema-teatro di provincia per il resto dell’anno – si trasforma nella vetrina dell’intero Paese, una sorta di specchio di ciò che siamo diventati e di quello in cui ci stanno trasformando. Le canzoni? Poco più di un pretesto per la macchina televisiva. Al Festival partecipa praticamente chiunque: opinionisti, esperti tuttologi, influencer, personaggi in cerca di visibilità, nani e ballerine, tutti parte di questo grande spettacolo che riflette la confusione della nostra epoca. Immancabile la solita patina di correttezza politica, il progressismo da salotto, l’occhiolino compiaciuto ai luoghi comuni del presente: una spruzzata di retorica LGBTQ+, una dichiarazione rigorosamente “di sinistra”, tutto condito da conferenze stampa, pre-festival, post-festival, eventi collaterali e una parata di stranezze spacciate per innovazione o addirittura arte. La musica è solo la colonna sonora di uno show che sta a metà tra il situazionismo e una fiera postmoderna. Più il pubblico si lascia coinvolgere, più assurdità vengono proposte.

All’italiano medio, nutrito al banco della mediocrità in saldo, questo va più che bene per soddisfare la dose giornaliera di dopamina.

A dominare tutto questo circo c’è la Rai, che gioca il ruolo di padrona di casa, finanziatrice, mentore e cerimoniere. Conta poco chi vincerà la competizione canora: l’importante è esserci, farsi vedere. Non importa se da protagonisti, ospiti, sosia di celebrità o semplici spettatori: ciò che conta è l’evento in sé. Le conferenze stampa diventano più rilevanti delle esibizioni musicali. E così accade che Elodie dichiari che non voterebbe mai Fratelli d’Italia nemmeno sotto minaccia: e a chi importa? Nel frattempo, Carlo Conti, il presentatore di turno, si trova a dover rispondere in conferenza stampa alla domanda epocale: “Sei antifascista?”. Ovviamente risponde di sì, perché la carriera viene prima di tutto. Anche se, con un minimo di onestà intellettuale, ammette che la questione è anacronistica e fuori luogo.

Propaganda da collezione

La quantità di propaganda che viene elargita non si fa mancare niente. C’è davvero di tutto nel mezzo. Della musica importa poco, il Festival è un gigantesco strumento di propaganda, pensato per intrattenere e distrarre il pubblico, alimentando le fragili certezze di un’Italia sempre più simile a una community televisiva, un gregge a cui viene somministrata una dose di autoindulgenza travestita da gara musicale. Il meccanismo funziona: forse proprio grazie alla sua mediocrità artistica, e nonostante la natura evidentemente faziosa dei messaggi che diffonde.

Per una settimana, la concorrenza tra le reti televisive viene sospesa. Le altre emittenti si adeguano, quasi svuotando i loro palinsesti o, nel migliore dei casi, parlando del Festival tanto quanto la Rai. Sfuggire a Sanremo diventa impossibile. È la nuova capitale italiana, soprattutto ideologicamente.

Fateci caso, per puro interesse di ricerca personale: avete mai sentito a Sanremo negli ultimi anni dei cantanti “di destra”? O avete mai sentito qualcuno spendere parole a favore della Palestina, o chiesti di rimediare al problema dell’immigrazione clandestina, o detto qualcosa contro i movimenti LGBT, ecc…?

Il pubblico sembra soddisfatto, o almeno addomesticato. E così il Festival giustifica le sue spese e il suo battage mediatico.

Persino chi non lo sopporta finisce per parlarne. Questa è la vera vittoria, il vero successo. Missione compita. Per un latro anno, la dose di propaganda è stata iniettata.

Sanremo fune da altare di opposizione ai governi, pertanto tutto ciò che viene detto in quei giorni riceve un’eco per mesi e mesi, dettando in un certo senso l’agenda politica dell’opinione pubblica.

Delle canzoni uscite se ne parlerà fino all’estate, dopodiché verranno obliterate a favore dell’evento successivo. Intanto l’italiano medio si ingurgita ore e ore di contenuti pregni di grasso propagandistico, come sarà certo di aver qualcosa di cui parlare il giorno successivo.

Nel frattempo, la settimana della distrazione di massa italiana lascia il via libera al Parlamento per approvare leggi nefaste e per inchiodare alla croce del sacrificio del proprio popolo. Tranquilli, vivi o morti passa tutto.

L’importante è guardare Sanremo.

The soyboys’ problem is they are running out of Ukrainian alpha boys to die for them.

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Sigma, sigma boy, sigma boy, sigma boy
Every girl wants to dance with you
Sigma, sigma boy, sigma boy, sigma boy
I am so very special that it will take you a year to win me over.

Ukrainian soy boy Zelensky has his knickers in a twist again, this time over two Russian girls, one aged eleven and the other aged twelve. Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya, the two Russian teenyboppers in question, stand accused by the Ukrainian regime and their paid apologists in the European Parliament “of promoting patriarchal and pro-Russian values” with “Sigma Boy“, their viral teen dance song, which has racked up hundreds of millions of hits on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube and wherever else the world’s teeny boppers congregate.

If you care to watch them on these youtube links here, here and here, be warned that youtube will plague you with hundreds of other links to the song, each of them having already been viewed millions of times. Although the music, if such it can be called, reminds me of that the CIA pumped into the Vatican’s Panamanian Embassy when their former drug running spook, Noriega, was holed up there, or that they used on the prisoners they tortured in Abu Ghraib, I am not the teenyboppers’ core target and I don’t even speak their teenybopping language, which they share with teenyboppers worldwide.

Revert to social media and you can find Chinese and South East Asian youngsters gyrating to similar forms of music in every one of their millions of hamlets. Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya are simply Russian manifestations of that global trend and, as long as they don’t blast it into my ears morning, noon and night, good luck to them and all like them in China, Thailand, the Philippines and everywhere else, even America, that is party to this essentially harmless craze. I mention America in particular as, at 1:16 in this video when signing his executive order banning horny men from little girls’ sports, Trump specifically said that his secret service detail should not be worried about the teenyboppers surrounding him.

Not so the cross dressing Zelensky, who fears Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya, just as he fears Russian schoolgirls singing Ya Russkiy or Russian mothers reading stories about Masha and the bear to their children. Houston we have a problem but it is as nothing compared to those the soyboys in Kiev, Berlin and Brussels have created for themselves.

The soyboys’ problem is they are running out of Ukrainian alpha boys to die for them and Trump’s new tactics are going to make them and their war racketeering redundant. Take, for example, the five-month battle for the town of Dzerzhinsk (known as Toretsk in Ukraine), which has just concluded with victory for the pro-Russian side, but with 26,000 dead on the Ukrainian side and all for what else besides ensuring that Nancy Pelosi’s insider trading fund continues to outperform the S&P 500?

Getting back to Sigma Boy, Betsy has explained that, though “the Sigma Boy is a very self-confident boy who doesn’t need anyone, at the same time, all the girls fall in love with him.” Although critics have tried to link those stock teenage sentiments with the darker pre-occupations of Andrew Tate and similarly sinister influencers, to my uncomplicated mind, it is just a modern and infinitely more grating version of Lili Marleen, the great German hit both sides enjoyed during the Second World War, where soldiers from all sides showed heroism in the face of certain defeat.

I am particularly thinking here of the Battle of the Blue Hills, the Thermopylae of the Foreign Waffen-SS when the Danish, Dutch and Estonian Waffen-SS inflicted staggering losses on their Red Army adversaries who, despite their appalling losses, knew that ultimate victory would be theirs. And, though the Estonian SS, the so-called Forest Brothers, with CIA help, fought on until 1956, just as with Hitler’s Reich or Zelensky’s rump Ukrainian Reich, they must be differentiated from profiteers like the Pelosis, the Zelenskys and Estonian lickspittle Kaja Kallas, who literally grew up as part of the Soviet elite but who, like the good turncoat Petr Pavel, is now suckling from an entirely different teat.

Profiteers like them are the real bane and they have been condemned long before Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya first breathed Russian air. Hjalmar Schacht, the economic architect of the Third Reich, was lambasted at Nuremberg for being the amoral opportunist that he was, and Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front and Guy Sajer’s The Forgotten Soldier were as scathing of Germany’s bellicose armchair generals as were the British war poets of their own charlatans and windbags.

Still, we all love a good parade and good music. Here is a British Paté film of the French armed forces parading through Paris on Bastille Day 1939. And here is Hitler’s Wehrmacht parading down those streets only a year later. And here, a mere four years later, is British Paté praising the Red Army as they escort 60,000 Wehrmacht soldiers through Moscow’s streets, with not a note of Lili Marleen or Erika between the whole sorry lot of them.

If we fast forward to 1955, British Pathé shows us Wehrmacht soldiers returning from Soviet prison camps. And, whatever our thoughts on them, our hearts have to go out to the mothers, widows and siblings shown in the clip wondering what happened to their loved ones, who died, just as Ukrainians are today dying, for nothing more than Hitler’s neuroses.

Still, even in death, there is hope. And, in Maria Zakharova’s case, some merriment as she laughs at British Foreign Secretary David Lammy’s idiotic remark that England’s relationship with Ukraine goes back ‘thousands of years’ and Germany’s equally stupid declaration that they must boycott Russia’s May 9^th 80th-anniversary celebrations of the victory over Nazi Germany in solidarity with Ukraine’s remaining Nazi legions.

Although he must honour the past, Russian President Putin is on record as wanting to put the horrors of the Great Patriotic War behind us all, and Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya, who are each probably on a Ukrainian hit list, are most likely on the same page as Putin and Russia’s armed forces with regard to that. But, as long as opportunists like the Zelenskys, the Pelosis, Kallas and that awful Albrecht/von der Leyen woman are given any semblance of authority, further slaughter is inevitable.

That said, the changing of the guard in the White House is a cause for hope. Karoline Leavitt, Trump’s Press Secretary, who seems to be cut from the same mould as Zakharova, is a vast improvement on Biden’s DEI hire and the Trump family, unlike Biden’s, seem to have no secret mega-deals with Ukraine’s Nazis. The hope, therefore, is that Trump and Putin can make a palatable deal on Ukraine and that children like Betsy and Maria Yankovskaya can chase their sigma boys elsewhere and bigger but less gifted children like Kallas, Albrecht/Von der Leyen and the cross dressing Zelensky can amuse themselves listening to Sigma Boy through their headphones, while the Russian and American adults surrounding Trump and Putin clean up the mess those imbeciles left in their wake.

Although NATO’s entitled Philistines might feel like scoffing at the Chinese and the Hungarians over their attempts to scale Everest, the laugh is very much on them.

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Though King Charles and the rest of the Villa-supporting British Royal Family are no doubt delighted that Argentinian and Aston Villa goalkeeper Emiliano Martínez has won the Lev Yashin trophy for being the best goalkeeper in the world for the second consecutive season, my focus is on Yashin, the great Russian keeper, rather than Martínez, the great Argentinian because, try as they like, NATO just cannot put great Russians like him down, no matter how long ago they may have died.

Though I would be the last person in the world to belittle the Argentinian colossus or any of the previous Lev Yashin trophy winners, the indisputable fact is that Yashin is the greatest goalkeeper the world has ever seen. And he is Russian. And Russian President Putin, along with countless others, Russians and non-Russians alike, was privileged to see him play.

Though Yashin remains the bitterest of Russian pills NATO’s spoilsports have to swallow along with their ill-founded pride, he is not the only Russian, who still refuses to lie down. If Yashin remains Russia’s key defender, then the great Dostoevsky continues to run ragged up front. Forget charlatans like Karl Marx. Dostoevsky’s White Nights, a novella about unrequited love and social isolation (free download here), is currently such a best seller amongst England’s alienated youth that even NATO’s supine media cannot ignore his resurgent popularity or the related fact that, despite their best efforts, England’s alienated youth, who seek him out, retain functioning and sovereign minds of their own. And good on every last one of them for that.

Not only do NATO have their knickers in a twist over Dostoevsky’s perennial popularity, but the eternal Tolstoy is causing them the kinds of gaunt nightmares that should belong only in Dostoevsky’s darkest novels. Korean-American author Kim Ju-hea has won the inaugural Leo Tolstoy Award for foreign (non Russian) literature, and the African Union has won the first Leo Tolstoy International Peace Prize, which was presented to them at Moscow’s world-renowned Bolshoi Theatre, which is not resting on that or any other of its countless laurels.

Because Elizaveta Kokoreva, the Bolshoi Ballet’s youngest star, has recently taken the eternal city of Rome by storm, she has thereby shown us that it will take more than Zelensky’s crass homo-erotic gyrations to put that gentle giant down, that the blessed Bolshoi has kicks galore left in it yet. The Hungarian gymnastics team have won global awards with their magical re-interpretation of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker and Beijing’s National Centre for the Performing Arts are resetting Tolstoy’s War and Peace as a musical.

And, though the Hungarians and Chinese, with their own deep cultural roots, are more than happy (and more than welcome) to pilfer from Russia’s classics, the Americans of the New York Ballet and of the White House, true to their cuckoo natures, cannot admit that they owe Tchaikovsky much more than folk infinitely more honest than those gangsters could ever repay. Still, what could you expect from a pig but a grunt and is it any wonder the civilised world despises these uncultured barbarians?

Although NATO’s entitled Philistines might feel like scoffing at the Chinese and the Hungarians over their attempts to scale Everest, the laugh is very much on them. That is because The Nutcracker, War and Peace, White Nights, the Bolshoi and Lev Yashin all show that quality will always trump the crassness Zelensky’s “art” and that of his Weimar Baerbock backers epitomise. As long as kids kick ball, as long as ballet is performed and as long as the written word inspires, Russia’s great immortals, like immortals elsewhere, will continue to enlighten, enchant and inspire and to thereby blindside NATO’s Nietzschean march to cultural nothingness.

And, because NATO have no concept of basic precepts like those, the regression they and their cross dressing Zelensky clown epitomise can and will never prevail, but will eventually cause them to slither back into the mire from whence their headless hedonism emerged.

And the hope has to be that they will take excess baggage like former trampolinist and current German Foreign Minister Annalena Baerbock, whom the Chinese treat as the charlatan that she is and Syria’s head hacking rulers treat as the tramp that she is, with them back into the swamp. Although one might not always concur with Russian Foreign Minister Maria Zakharova, watching her swat that German nincompoop is akin to watching Yashin or Martínez block a shot from a five-year old, or Tolstoy, Dostoevsky or Tchaikovsky scratch their heads as they toss one of Zelensky’s crass comedy sketches into the trash can. Because Yashin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kokoreva and Zakharova tower above the Bidens, Zelenskys and Baerbocks of this world, hope for a better future is as immutable as is the Russia of Yashin, Tolstoy, their hundreds of millions of compatriots and the billions of Hungarians, Japanese, Koreans, Africans and Chinese, who wish them only the best.

Even though genocide rapper Simon Bikindi, Rwanda’s Michael Jackson as he was dubbed, was very equivocal with his lyrics, his war crimes’ conviction is very relevant to what NATO’s hypocritical hate speech advocates are getting up to today.

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Even though genocide rapper Simon Bikindi, Rwanda’s Michael Jackson as he was dubbed, was very equivocal with his lyrics, his war crimes’ conviction is very relevant to what Pussy Riot, the French Olympians and NATO’s other hypocritical hate speech advocates are getting up to today.

Bikindi’s lyrical content, anchored as it was in local lore, is whatever the opposite of the ’60s Peace & Love Hippy music was. “It is the duty of all Muhutu to arise and exterminate all the cockroaches” does not quite hit the same notes as does San Francisco which was written in 1967 at the height of the Vietnam genocide.

Briefly, the International Criminal Court found that, though rap songs like Bikindi’s ‘I hate Hutus‘ sent out a message to all listeners, his core audience knew well that the genocidal “work” required of them entailed slaughtering any and all Hutus, who helped the Tutsis subjugate the Hutus.

Although Bikindi pointed out that the government commissioned him to write the songs he stood accused of writing well before the genocide began, that he was in a relationship with Angeline Mukabanana, a Tutsi and she, in turn testified that Bikindi hated no one, and was simply a money grabbing opportunist on the make, the CIA’s jokers in the Hague gave him 15 years, even though they agreed his lyrics were notoriously difficult to decipher.

Given that all three of Bikindi’s main compositions were composed, produced and recorded prior to the 1994 genocide, it can be easily argued that the Rwandan government cynically used Bikindi’s music as a way to further provoke tensions between Rwanda’s two main ethnic groups. NATO’s victors thought otherwise and banged him up; in a chilling warning to all of us being targeted by NATO’s hate speech evangelicals today, scholar Martin Cloonan argues that because Bikindi’s Twasazareye turned “from simple hate speech to a demonstrable element of consciously deployed call to genocide”, Bikindi deserved the long sentence he got, even though he played no part in that transformation.

Although Bikindi counter-argued that he was being tried for expressing his freedom of expression, no one would deny that Bikindi was very talented and that his raw talent helped immensely in making his songs staples of the political rallies and extremist radio broadcasts that played pivotal roles in fueling the 1994 genocide. Although the same argument could be made regarding the rock music Yankee soldiers listened to during their Vietnamese turkey shoots, no one in their right minds could put forward that defence for the inter-connected Russian, Irish and French morons we now turn to.

Russian group Pussy Riot shot to fame, not because of their talent but because NATO was delighted to see this group of delinquents desecrate Moscow’s main cathedral and call Russia’s secular and religious leaders all the foul-mouthed names they could.

The fact that the CIA’s Amnesty International got Elton John, U2, the 91 year old Yoko Ono and some other shills to sing their praises does not change the fact Pussy Riot are devoid of talent and are not “one of the world’s foremost political activists”. They are, simply, a bunch of Russian slappers NATO weaponised against all things Russian as part of its preparations for war in Ukraine. To support that point, here is an account of their “concert” in Switzerland, where “senior citizens, young students, women, regulars of L’Usine, curious people or political activists” paid good money to hear these idiots harp on about “Pussy Riot’s illegal show in Moscow’s cathedral, Alyokhina’s jail time and escape…a criticism of the Russian Orthodox Church, its head Patriarch Kirill of Moscow, and Putin’s links with the institution and the Patriarch” before “the four members knelt in front of the audience in a cynical prayer to Mary.”

Although the review admits Pussy Riot are talentless slappers, it says their strength lies in their convictions and “their whole-hearted commitment to their militancy is what gives them this fascinating aura, allowing them to cross borders and make their voices heard internationally”.

Although the review argues that “Pussy Riot is the perfect example of using art to communicate”, I think the Cossacks, who whipped them in Sochi, were much better communicators in that regard. Although we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one, Pussy Riot are part of a new cultural trend, where CIA stooges roar their heads off, like they are having an epileptic fit, and audiences are told they must lap it up. Irish rappers Kneecap typify this trend.

Although Kneecap mostly rap in pidgin Irish, almost all of their efforts, when translated into English, go something like this: I love SNOW, sniffing a baggie with my nose, It is deadly. I hate racist gobshites. But I love snow and black transvestites.

Not only does the British government fund these plastic radical retards, who are based in the West Belfast heartland of the IRA’s notorious D Company, but they and their various sidekicks in Northern Ireland Screen, the Irish Language Broadcast Fund, Fís Éireann/Screen Ireland, the BFI (awarding National Lottery funding), Coimisiún na Meán and TG4 financed their movie, appropriately entitled Kneecap, named after both themselves and an infamous D Company torture technique, whereby the IRA would give their victims a so-called six-pack, 38 calibre shots to the knees, ankles and elbows, thereby crippling the victim for life.

The movie, for what it is worth, is abysmal, its plot closely follows Kneecap’s Wikipedia entry and consists of a series of short cuts in West Belfast of the band members legitimising IRA violence and sodomising young Protestant women, when not out of their heads on all imaginable drugs. Though obviously produced on a tiny budget, Kneecap, which is Ireland’s pathetic entry to the 2025 Oscars, has been described as “One of the best music biopics ever made” (NME); “Big, Booming and Fearless” (RogerEbert.com); “Bursting with unruly energy that practically escapes the confines of the screen” (Variety); “Clearly destined for cult status” (Screen Daily); “Riotous and Rebellious” (Hot Press); and “A must-see film that has it all” (Today FM). The film received its World Premiere at the prestigious Sundance Film Festival in January 2024, where it won a NEXT Audience Award, the first Irish language film to win at the festival. It went on to play at Sundance London, and was the opening film of Galway Film Fleadh, where it won three prizes, including the Audience Award. Although the CIA’s New York Times has also given this pathetic garbage a rave review, this revealing video shows Kneecap’s knees going like the clappers, suggesting either some severe abuse of cocaine or some severe mental problems or, of course, both.

Kneecap are not Ireland’s only compromised New Wavers. Here are the Mary Wallopers praising Johnny Adair‘s C Company, UFF, which were notorious Protestant sectarian killers. Even though the Mary Wallopers (code name for Catholic killers) are based in South Armagh IRA’s Dundalk stronghold, one has to wonder if these Protestant plastic Paddies are just another Pussy Riot, who are paid to project faux radicalism against the Catholic Church and all the CIA’s other usual soft targets. Certainly, the music world is open to abuses like that and audiences with Mick Jagger, U2, Elton John or any of the other geriatrics, who came out of their hospices to support Pussy Riot, can do wonders for one’s career, just as they did for Irish singer/slapper Imelda May.

Before turning to the Paris Olympics, it is important to note that what all these government funded radicals have in common is a lack of talent and an absence of any semblance of decency or sound aesthetics. And though these cretins see themselves as transgressing norms regarding extreme violence (“kneecap” and hymns to sectarian butchers), how we consider aesthetics (Bambi Thug and Panti Bliss centring ugliness in their routines), conventions around respect for other people’s beliefs (attacks on Christianity and Ulster Protestantism), because they can’t exist without the targets they are attacking, they are anti-art and anti-culture. Real art and culture in sophisticated society, such as Bikindi’s, is additive and does not celebrate ugliness, make unprovoked attacks on the views and traditions of others, celebrate transgression and glorify violence and offense for their own sake.

Although the jury is still out on Simon Bikindi’s fine music, there can be no doubt that Pussy Riot, Kneecap and their affiliated charlatans are part of a bigger transgressive trend the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics epitomised. Having a group of degenerate drag queens offer a mocking pastiche of Leonardo’s da Vinci’s Last Supper sent out a clear message that the IOC, French Intelligence and Europe’s other CIA carpet baggers behind this outrage were trying to be the midwives of a transgression from the flesh and blood of the old and original Eucharist, that da Vinci’s masterpiece represents, to a new and putrid Eucharist, a black and blasphemous Mass that we are all being summoned by Pussy Riot, Kneecap and D Company to partake in.

The image these imposters chose to desecrate was a piece of Catholic art, made for a Catholic order by a Catholic artist. Its power both as a symbol of the Last Supper and as a piece of art derives its authenticity from its Catholic nature. It portrays the juxtaposition of the institution of the Mass with the realisation that apostolic betrayal is to act as a catalyst for the coming Crucifixion, but also the coming Resurrection. The transubstantiation of the bread and wine will, according to the Catholic subtext, become the means for transforming the human heart of the disciple.

Though the French imposters aim for a different form of transformation, it is the same transformation Pussy Riot have been paid to serve, and it is the same infinitely blasphemous one with respect to Mount Athos that Steven Karganovic recently drew our attention to.

Here, by way of contrast, is the opening ceremony of the 2008 Beijing summer Olympics and here is the 2020 Beijing winter Olympics‘ opening ceremony. No stupid messages from obese lesbians, just the Chinese showing they can handle a global spectacle without breaking a sweat, without leeching off others and without causing offense.

But then, whereas the Chinese, who put those shows together, are comfortable both in their own skin and within the base of their own deep culture, Bikindi entangled himself in his own culture’s contradictions and Pussy Riot, Kneecap and the obese French lesbians never had any culture to begin with. All they had was the ability to mock and, whether we are talking about da Vinci, Mount Athos, Noah’s ark or the Olympics, CIA mockingbirds like them, and like the terror gangs of Bikindi’s Rwanda, are creatures of the night and the dark that we and the beautiful, new world evolving in front of us can both do without.