About The Great Bertholinis

It is widely accepted, that the mankind beyond Africa genetically derives from four pristine mothers. Seven point five meters is how far mother earth dislocates her lines of order each year- a countdown to fractal reversal, to the Big Crack. The continental plates and their five-finger drift however prove to be quite the snails in terms of international bonding. What that means? No idea! The hungarophile philharmonics are more rigorous than that. They sport an anti-pop star name, which sounds as un-American American as if John Lurie, Roberto Benigni and Woody Allen formed a folk-dance trio and did incognito small-time through Kabul's night life. It takes them 41 minutes to shift the epicenter of contemporary popular culture to latitude 47 and nobody notices - and in fact that's their merit. Furthermore it's about the one who wants to read a book while leaning on a tree. But he can't. Because where the book is, there is no tree. Thus he plants one - exactly where the book is. Hence the contest for the 21 century's last unused aphorism is decided. No matter who. No matter which book. No matter, if the hungarophile philahrmonics win or don't win the Norfolk Hammer Mill-award for applied "Getting to the point" - it's clear-cut, that no ensemble hasn't ever hit the bull's eye more in the eye in terms of "What's all that about?". The rest is to be added very easily: The Great Bertholinis / Planting a Tree Next To A Book In a time. The eight Bertholinis siege the musical wonder land with the foolish insistence of Don Quixote. Their backs on the shady giant's wooden capillary, their pince-nez in Anderland - watching the Meanies' and Hussars' skirmish. And above peppermintish battle fumes there's a flashy colorful sun rising constantly. Cadences of the East, intertwined in polyphone musical comedy - about as Unbritish British, as if Manchester were a Hungarian province and as if Bela Lugosi was the Monkees' lead singer. It only takes THE GREAT BERTHOLINIS 41 minutes to shift the epicenter of contemporary popular culture to latitude 47 and nobody notices - and in fact that's their merit. Who keeps his ears in the yank-storm between pre, post and avant and furthermore spins motley pills, will get himself crazy in love listening to these symphonics.