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๐—–๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ป๐—ผ๐—น๐—น๐˜†โ€™๐˜€ ๐—–๐—ผ๐—ฟ๐—ป๐—ฒ๐—ฟ - this week: Hands - Kaminski

Welcome all to ๐—–๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ป๐—ผ๐—น๐—น๐˜†โ€™๐˜€ ๐—–๐—ผ๐—ฟ๐—ป๐—ฒ๐—ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly - an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐™‰๐™š๐™ฌ ๐˜ผ๐™ง๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™จ๐™ฉ ๐™Ž๐™ฅ๐™ค๐™ฉ๐™ก๐™ž๐™œ๐™๐™ฉ playlists.


๐™ƒ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™๐™จ - ๐™†๐™–๐™ข๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ ๐™ž


Charles finally has his Europe in the Summertime...


Who knew heโ€™d talk about his holiday?? Quite impossible. Surely not! Well, surely. Predictability, with a twist.


I have been away for a short while. I went to the land of gestures. Londoners are known for their gestures too, but not the kinds of gestures you would be happy teaching your innocent young niece. So where did I go? What was this land of gestures? Well, if you have been paying attention the past couple of months, you might have picked it up from a relatively recent review of mine. This land was (and still is), Italy. The worldโ€™s boot, for it is bootyful. Italians are known for their gestures, both in terms of hands and their general expressive, warm nature. It is very me. Whether I actually uncontrollably do these things is another question, but I do like it all. Gestures somehow bring people to life. They make one come out of oneโ€™s shell, mingling and coagulating with their fellow gesturer. Almost literally forming one elegantly groomed mass of expression. There is an instant closeness and bond between strangers. But not in a creepy gossipy English way, like you have found yourself a brand new stalker you never even asked for. And why is one eye more wonky than the other? No no. These people are good, kind, genuine people. You can just tell! Well, one or two of them might plausibly be something to do with La Mafia, but one has to assume it is probably unlikely.


Unlikely because I was in Bologna, not Sicily. Before this trip, the only places I had ever been in Italy were Venice and Rome (not too shabby). And we all know what theyโ€™re like. Stupidly wonderfully bloody perfect in pretty much every single way! And apparently Florence. But what of Bologna? People donโ€™t seem to know much about the place. Itโ€™s not that famous. Its sauce is famous worldwide! But you canโ€™t treat a book by its sauce. The sauce lies at the source. The place itself. Bolognese is not simply the name of the sauce, it only means โ€œof Bolognaโ€. So everything in Bologna is Bolognese. Confused? I do hope so. I always joked about this sauce and have forever pronounced it Bollock-knees, but in fact it should be pronounced Bolonyayzay. Say it with me! Bol-on-yay-zay! Great - youโ€™re a natural mamma mia. Can you feel your digestion kicking in all of a suddenโ€ฆ? Oh sorry, thatโ€™s just my digression. Ahem. Bologna is part of a much larger region of Italy called Emilia-Romagna (which my girlfriend Emilia no doubt relentlessly enjoyed without pause). Having also taken in another couple of beautiful cities (Ferrara and Modena) during our stay, it was Bologna that captured our hearts. This was mainly due to one thing. Porticos. The place was chock-full of porticos. It not only shaded us from much of the midday sun (for there was lots of it), but also gave such a sense of peace, safety, comfort and, shelter - not to mention beauty. Aside from the obvious shelter of our flat for the week, we basically had a permanent aerated shade doing its best impression of a Panama hat throughout our warm wandering journeys each day. Blissful, beautiful shelter. And whenever we wanted a bit of fresh sunshine (yes, it was actually fresh), we could just pop to the left or right for the nearest beautiful square. As you can tell, there is rather a lot of beauty, here, there and everywhere in Italy. It is probably where I belong. If only I could simply learn the lingo. There are only so many times one can utter โ€œecco quaโ€ or โ€œaloraโ€, or break into song with โ€œโ€˜O Sole Mioโ€ at the top of oneโ€™s lungs. Language is a must for any foreigner in a foreign country. I was useless. My girlfriend however, was not. I can do music, not languages. She can do languages, not music. She was great with the odd gesture. I was the odd jester. But if I were to live there, I would absoLUTEly learn the language to the best of my ability. My girlfriend can spend that time learning the major scale if sheโ€™s happy, and the minor scale if sad. Or the Super Locrian mode if in a quandary. Alora.


I have only grazed the surface of my trip, but since youโ€™re all so totally bored already, I will digress to a far more favourable digression: Music. What you have read so far should give me a suitable amount of ingredients for this review (Iโ€™m bound to wander back on occasion). And no, this artist is NOT Italian - โ€œhuh, he missed a trick thereโ€ - perhaps I did, but I just think the music is more important than the wherecumference of the artist. Kaminski has been here before. He is still Dutch, and still tossing that salad black and blue. But this time, Black Salad is in EP form. A form that in this case holds four songs. The first two were his most recent single releases - one of which I reviewed (because it is possibly my absolute favourite song from the New Artist Spotlight ever - I shouldnโ€™t ever say that as it might make some people cry, but I had to. Sorry). Tracks 3 and 4 are brand new. This is the kind of EP that you treasure and play again and again, then pause, then play again and again. Track 4 is a corker, but for the sake of this review, I will be laying my hands on his hands. Literally. The track is called Hands. Fingers at the ready? Let us peruse.


Hands are for holding (Copyright CC 2023). Hands are for grasping, and for giving your fingers and thumbs hinges. They are also for eating, drinking, doing, creating, prodding, poking, fondling and punching. Did I not mention them giving you the ability to play instruments? Apologies to those with no hands, but hands are damned useful. The Italians have realised this for a very long time. They just canโ€™t help but use them!! These wonderfully and inherently pointless gestures that conjure such point in the ether, are artistic in their very nature. It is pure emotion. Please welcome, Kaminski, who proves that many hands make light work, even if they are all his own. What I mean by this, is that he does it all himself. Everything. He snatches that arty spark - like a fly to a hungry frogโ€™s tongue - and from first idea to final release, by his two hands, it is done. This, to me, is as close to pure art as we can realistically come. No intervention. I have always said, if you need help with something, just ask. You will end up with something better. But if you DONโ€™T need help, your solo effort will most certainly fulfil your every craving, and your piece will be very close to what you envisioned. Hence my purest respect for Kaminski and his own personal way of doing things. He has a way of writing and producing that twists and turns like the streets and porticos of Bologna. Never getting oneโ€™s bearings, never knowing what is to come next, yet always being immersed in hot, beautiful bliss. You can never imagine the city being built. Bologna wasnโ€™t built in a day. But even if it had been, it would surely not be an obvious design. There is no grid or pattern to follow. You see, Kaminski thinks outside the box. In fact, heโ€™s ripped up the box and displayed its tattered remains in his own unique take on late Matisse. He doesnโ€™t do 2-chord repeated chang-changs, and then we go into the dull-dull chorus. It just doesnโ€™t interest him. Much like it not interesting me if I came across a straight, wide motorway in Bologna, lined in cold, hard, concrete tower blocks. In fact it would cripple and crush me. Something that derivative mainstream music does to me now. I. Have. Heard. It. All. GIVE ME SOMETHING NEW!! Or something fond and personal. Or something rich and exciting! Something innately human and full of emotion and art. Something that gets me up and moving, rather than yawning at the bar. The drink should never be more satisfying than the music. Well, Kaminski does all of this. He is everything that encapsulates indie music. His music has soul. It lives!!


This is not an easy feat. Hence its rarity in independent and mainstream music. It demands a great deal of attention to detail and a vast amount of talent to do this alone. It also strongly suggests that you should have heard a vast amount of music in your time. The more you know or have heard, the more you absorb. Not copy. We are but unconscious sponges. Not copycats. Artists are not just here to remind the heart to beat, but to beat irregularly from time to time. It might be a shock at first, but it makes you pay attention, and it makes you feel alive. Art is our legal drug. Not just harmless, but vital! Could you imagine this world without art? Could you imagine Bologna without beauty (assuming youโ€™ve been able to imagine it thus far)? There would be no world. There would be no Bologna. Everything would be a dronescape for drones.


I mentioned language earlier. I realise the people whose native language is not English are at an automatic disadvantage. And I am deeply sorry - itโ€™s just one of those things. People are shallow, people are lazy, and I am one of those people. Hence it being so utterly essential to speak the language of your audience. Otherwise you cannot communicate in the way that you mean - or close to. As an artist, I see this as even more important. Kaminski plucked up the courage and swallowed his national pride, by learning the English language in a different way. I can only assume that he cares far more for the beauty of his lyrics than for casual conversation. I understand him perfectly when we chat. I could barely believe English wasnโ€™t his native language. Yet he so often apologises for his English! And all the while, his poetry in song lives and breathes on. All this says to me is that he is a thoroughly lovely chap. I just love that he cares enough to make his songs so damned poetic and beautiful, IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE!!! While all the natives are singing โ€œI was walking down the street, youโ€™re a lovely girl to meetโ€ - at least make it interesting by saying โ€œโ€ฆlovely girl to EATโ€, or something!! So we have his wonderful words. But then thereโ€™s the music! All this shelter I had in Bologna, is exactly what Kaminski gives in his music. Peace, safety, comfort and shelter. Pure shelter. But not calm, boring shelter. No, NO! It is your personal shelter FROM the mundane. Heโ€™s got you covered.


So, Kaminski. If he is this good, he surely must be known by now, no? I mean, perhaps on his way to stardom, or even there already? Well, like Bologna, Kaminski is not hugely known. And I donโ€™t know why. I can only assume that his presence has not yet been met by most. Because I feel that he has that magic touch that wonโ€™t let go. Not like sticky, messy treacle. More a neat velcro-magnetism in your ticket pocket at all times. As if we have never realised that empty slot in our records (both senses of the word), labelled K. He nestles himself in place once heard. He is here to stay, and he knows it. And yet, like the unassuming beauty of Bologna, sure, there is pride, but there is no arrogance. As if to simply and politely state the obvious: โ€œOf course itโ€™s beautiful, I made it beautiful. Why would I make it ugly?โ€ There is no Vegas-style KAMINSKI in gaudy flashing lights. He loiters under these arched shadows forged by perfectly proportioned porticos, to one day emerge and show the world his heavyweight powers as a true architect of sound and emotion. Pure, original, musical passion. My final word on the people of Bologna. They had kindness, respect, manners, class and style. Kaminski echoes all this and more in his writing, production, delivery and personality. A truly ambidextrous fellow.


Kaminski has us in the palm of his charm.


If you go to Bologna, please remember that the classic dish is with tagliatelle, not spaghetti - a polite warning. Not so much EGG on your face, as Bolognese! Prego. Say it with me! BOL-ON-YAY-ZAY! Perfetto. Grazie.


Alora, who said Bollock-knees? Ecco qua.


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