Walking in the seaside and provincial towns, one begins to perceive something unusual: the beginning of a process of sound dematerialization. The Latin and plasticized rhythms to which the last summers have accustomed us to fade and slowly disappear, euphoric songs that catalyze feelings of pure hatred as well as infinite well-being, amplified especially in the bathing establishments and in the cars with the windows open.
Pieces that have translated reggaeton and distant dancehall oscillations into franchises, with a very free and unscrupulous conception of what a cultural tradition is, without enough courage and intuition to propose a truly hybrid language and style. Songs that have rarely tried to isolate a personal language, made above all of guarana and summer storms, of sentimental misunderstandings and the dictatorship of being happy.
Many will not miss it, now that the summers have become more timid and fragmented and that finally the italoreggaeton follows the physiology of the very short and secular cycles of summer. But this messed-up genre is more obstinate than others, and still we come across someone who follows its rhythms with ferocious obstinacy, opening up to the languor of anachronism. We will not miss it, but with a leap forward we really have to ask ourselves whether the italoreggaeton will end up like Eurodance, which is now a container full of memories and is kept in the memory even by those who have never heard It is true that someone’s unbearable summer catchphrase is always someone else’s tortured nostalgia. u
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