Of the ten tracks, three stand out above the rest. Curami is pure controlled chaos: a riff that repeats like a sick heartbeat and lyrics that sound like a warning or a comfort, depending on how you listen. Trafitto goes further: the drums pound like a pneumatic hammer, and the voice cracks on every syllable, as if the singer were on the verge of laughing or crying. Valium Tavor Serenase, for its part, is a three-minute journey where the melody unravels and reassembles itself, with a chorus that sticks in your head like a rusty hook. The rest of the songs maintain the same pulse: Noia sounds like boredom turned into art, Emilia paranoica—in its remix version—seems like a broken mirror of the region they come from, and Morire closes the album with a sigh that isn’t one of relief.
The impact of this album wasn’t measured in sales or awards, but in how other musicians used it as a starting point. Bands like Management or Massimo Volume acknowledged that there was something new here: a blend of rage and melody that didn’t fit into any genre. Even more recent groups, like the Modena City Ramblers, have covered their songs, proving that the Soviet-style punk of the CCCP remains alive decades later. They recorded it in three weeks with borrowed equipment and no pretensions of grandeur, yet the result was an album that, unintentionally, became a manual for those who wanted to make music without following rules.