agile, mobile, hostile

the real, underground, unpretentious rock and roll scene showed me a lot about life. it showed me that it works on his own rules and that these rules don't make sense/apply to the society as we know it. if you ask me, it pretty much goes in anthitesis with it. the more you are a winner, the more you get success, the more you kinda get away from the real rock and roll.
there's people out there whose life is a monument to all this.
Andre Williams is one of them. it's hard to describe him for me and that's why I really love the documentary agile, mobile, hostile. it's more than a documentary, is kinda like "some time spent with him".
it's far from a glorification. it's rough, direct and it doesn't give a strong personal poit of view.
you can watch it here. now. free.

few considerations and an explanation

this blog is to me a place to "mention" things that to me are worth mentioning.
if there's nothing worth mentioning I don't post anything. I hope this explain my silence since last october.
In november Karin and I got married and and it took me some time to understand what happened in me, how it eventually changed me and so on.
I didn't quite change a bit, probably because I was seriously ready to get married.
Anyway life is at least as good as it was before and couples of weeks ago I happily found myself scouting for bands again, binging documentaries, reading and playing as usually.
so far, a happy lad.
time to share and "mention" things again, good things are gone is back in business.
so, where were we?

a dear friend of ours, actually Karin's madame of honour, managed to capture the feeling of us two getting married.
so there it is, thanks Tiiu.

A dear friend from the other far side of the States managed to write a moving and deep portrait of me. It was a deep emotion and unexpected emotion for me to find this post on his own blog because he has always been a symbol to me, a scale to apply to the way I look at the world and an example of how a life is worth living.
he is to me a "real thing". not a copy, not a character, not an extra. a real thing.

I haven't seen him in years now, we just excange a couple of mails every now and then but I still know we're somehow walking the same path.
I don't know how and why he thought that I was worth a whole post, but I know that he managed to mention all the things I care about. So if you wanted to know more about the person that writes this blog. Click here.

thanks for listening.

DID, Time for shopping

Noi, tra la terra e il cielo

Pessione di Chieri, Apr 2009

Ivan Catalano

white denim - workout holiday

I'm ashamed it took two years for this album to get to my ears. It did three days ago and it actually barely stopped since.
sixties, seventies, garage, indie, psych, heart, belly and shake shake shake!
that's workout holiday.
I don't want to say too much, I'll just leave you with a couple of facts:
1- in their own words: "CDs seem pretty worthless to us"
2- videos awfully reminding me of some werner herzog.

White Denim - Look That Way At It music video MPC
by ModernPlowCollective

Serene Outside

Alatskivi, Estonia, 2009
Davide De Giorgi

nightcap session #6 - screenstaring

London, 2009

Davide De Giorgi

lux interior

It happened in February and I decided not to mention it in my blog, probably expecting all the important pages to say something much more appropriate than I could. Somehow thou, after these months, I had to change my mind.

Lux Interior is dead. He is no more. His heart failed.

In these situations I wish I believed in Heaven and Hell just to figure him having a laugh in the eternal flames. A hero, a fighter, an inspiration, a living anthem, three chords, a soul.

I want something of him to have place in these pages, with the memory of the only time I had the privilege to see him performing.

I won't bother mentioning the details. It was a huge summer festival. It was the time when pop punk and melodic hardcore made it comfortably into pop culture. Main attraction were the NO-FX, always hated them, always will. Under the stage an undeserved crowd of teenagers with expensive skateboard shoes carefully destroyed, brand new punkrock t-shirts freshly ripped, cold beer in one hand and joint in the other. Soft rebels.

Cramps where onstage infamously at around 8PM, at least on the main stage. Drummer and bass player got into position with style, proud satellites of the the true stars.

Poison Ivy (about 50 years old already?) shut the crowd getting on stage in an usual outfit. Jaw dropping. Her Gretsch a titan high on her chest. She walks in front of her Fender Twin and raises the bottom in in a typically depraved, cheeky way. The crowd is silent. She starts the riff, could have been any of their riffs, I don't remember which one. I remember those kids confused about finding themself facing the desire for a 50 years old rock and roll legendary vixen.

Then He came on stage.

The one and only thing close enough to a human, capable of wearing manly latex trousers and high heels. A bomb. I won't make it long. I'll just say that it would have been impossible for ANYONE ELSE to shut the mouth of those kids. They were there for a quick "untza untza"but they got looped into slow, slushy rock and roll dynamite. They did it, He did it. He got bloody naked on stage, he took off one of Poison Ivy's socks with the teeth, and he eventually slipped it on his gender. He climbed up, high on the structure holding the stage roof and the huge speakers. Singing.

He was the only one capable of doing it without being inappropriate.

He could. He was Lux Interior.

Most of the kids there that day didn't even know his name.

But you should have seen their faces.

For Elvis' sake, you should have seen their faces and you should have seen them enjoying the last true rock and roll God.

Thanks for what you have done. 33 years of style and legend.

Lux Interior

R.I.R'N'R

21-10-1946 / 04-02-2009

neglected duet

Torino, 2005
Ivan Catalano

Robin Hood Gardens, London, 2009

Davide De Giorgi

hatcham social - you dig the tunnel, I'll hide the soil

toby has got a wonderful voice, he sings properly and he doesn't shout like most of the people out there, me included. in this first LP of them he needs to shout something thou: "what's mine is mine all mine and mine". key sentence of the album, essence of the band. listening to them you can tell the records they used to have on the shelves at home, you can tell the album they pick up at the charity shop and the ones they have to move when they are looking for the keys before going out.
but the loudest side of this "you dig the tunnel, I'll hide the soil" is theirs, all theirs and theirs.
that's what made me fall in love with them two years ago. in a seasick panorama where a generation of bands shout out who they want to resemble, I fall in love with the few who learned from the past and are not afraid of "not resemble".

Hatcham Social buy mostly records that are cheap to buy in London.
Hatcham Social can catch unusual frequencies from across the ocean.

Cheap records in London are into the boxes of unusual shops and either they sold millions of copies or they sold few thousands.
when unusual frequencies cross the ocean the signal is strong and everlasting.
I don't want to analyse the songs or the mixing because I think a review is not a suitable place to do so.
when in a record is possible to read all this and the identity of the band is still clear and strong... well... we are talking about a great album and a great band.

Just bloody listen, will ya?



ps- check out Dave's blog every now and then.

time is an artist

Time wears out the key in the hole. No matter how hard, no matter who's turning it. Time is working in silence, when the town is asleep or when you're miles away with your mind. It doesn't forget, for it's always there. At work. It apparently never leaves anything undone, unaccomplished. No no. Time modifies friendships, moulds consciences and shapes skylines. In silence. At work. You weren't there when time was already there, and you weren't aware when it was no longer there.
There are just a few who can recognize its masterpieces: a worn out book, a yellowish old polaroid picture, a rock that faces the Ocean or the sign of a canvas that used to hang from a wall. Nobody lives there. But time does.
So, let's recognise it: time is the most talent-gifted, solitary and patient artist. And probably the less paid.
The next time you do something special, take your time.

eesti (English version)

Estonia is not one of those countries with a stereotype image abroad, which is actually a plus. I'm Italian, and therefore used hearing "oooh you're Italian, pizza spaghetti, mandolino" or stuff like that. When mentioned, Estonia doesn't actually recall strong images, if not that it used to be part of USSR and it's a cold north east european country. If you're a boy you probably think it's a place where beautiful girls grow on trees, if you're a computer geek you probably know it is the place where Skype was invented.

When I went to Estonia the first time, it was to meet my extended family. Karin was already there and I had to reach her by myself. Needless to say, there's a lot to discover about this "deep" country. They say "calm water but deep water". Therefore, when back, I decided to write a post on my blog, to create an image of this country in the mind of my friends.
Now most of my friends don't speak Italian, so I realized it was about time to make an English version of it. I will try to translate it with utmost accuracy, because I don't want to compromise the fresh feelings I had when I wrote it in the first place.
Hope you will enjoy it and hope it will help you to visualise Estonia with my eyes.

---------------------------------------------

I haven't been in many places like Estonia.
on the one hand a nature agreeably wild and innocently hostile, on the other the slashes of an invasion that have left concrete marks randomly in the country and in the spirit of the people.
it was the kinda situation that suits me best. the unique and peculiar position of someone visiting a foreign country not as a tourist, but as an equal inmate of the locals with their existences and rhythms.
so I eventually find myself flying over Tallinn, spending three hours in a comfy bus southbound to Tartu and then watching out of the window of a car for another hour to Alatskivi.
Tallinn is the capital, 400.000 inhabitants and a railway station with 4 platforms mostly desolated. Tartu is the second biggest town in Estonia, 100.000 in the records.
apparently Alatskivi gets to 1000. has got a gasoline pump -not a proper gas station, just somewhat a gasoline pump-, a small shop for primary goods and basic luxuries and a grand castle from more or less the 19th century. about 50 minutes from Tartu, through forests, beside a totally white lake, in front of a random quantity of wooden houses, under the eyes of several wild animals.
getting in the village is sudden and unconscious. there are no pavements and the tarmac is tormented by years of snow tires. the houses are still surprisingly random. I was expecting them to be close. don't ask me why, I was expecting them to be leant against each other, like a group of prairie dogs in a winter like this. there's plenty of prairie dogs around here.
instead the houses are scattered.
I start to think that everybody here minds his own business, retired, exactly matching my imagery of the nordic people, cold and isolated in themselves.
well, they are obviously not mediterranean, but a lot of people surprise me engrossed in moving from one house to the other. lines in the snow link every home, and all of a sudden all the distances have a meaning, a reason. time for thinking. the steps in the snow are the physical proof of the will to see someone face to face, the will to go to the no-frills shop to buy something.
I discover a different pride in the eyes of the people. a pride that made mine blush, feeling so conceited all of a sudden. here people look straight into each other's eyes, longer than in Italy. eternal seconds more than in Italy. and I never look away, not to challenge, of course. rather curiosity. it's part of the communication. Karin's dad doesn't speak English, and I don't speak Estonian. nevertheless we speak for hours, with her in the middle as a translator. we don't understand each other before she translates, but we stare into each other's eyes.

outside the window a snow that scares no one starts to fall silently again.
everything is busy in his own balance.
everything apart from the concrete boxes.

Alatskivi used to be one of the thousands of u.r.s.s colonies.
people from all over estonia, actually from all over the union, were sent with all their caboodle, to live in big concrete boxes dropped from the soviet sky between these small wooden houses. everybody used to have a job, everybody was equal. so equal that it didn't really matter where they were living... you know... being equal...
the only strong evidence from the image I'm facing, walking alone the path between these parking lots, is that all this made good to nobody.
no good for the estonians, deprived of their own language, victims of a capillary programmed invasion. pure violence.
no good for the russians, shipped thousands miles away from their own houses to live in concrete boxes in the middle of nowhere. and, I mean, most of them came from another village in the middle of nowhere. but in that middle of nowhere there was their family, friends, relatives. their background. after generations, these russians are still pissed off. since 1991, they keep on speaking russian. not a good sign, if you ask me, 17 years after Estonia got its own independence and language back.
no good for the land. respectfully inhabited for centuries with shy, functional wooden houses made with the wood grown a few steps away, and then slashed with random boxes of concrete. not one. fifteen of them.
the violence of the gesture is also clear inside the flats.
when I walked in I wondered why proud and tidy people such Karin's parents live in a house with electric wires hanging from the walls.
I knock on the wall to test it.
all the internal walls in the house are made of reinforced concrete, like pillars of a bridge. have you ever tried to hammer something into reinforced concrete? then you know what I mean.
the flats are all the same, and so must they stay. you can't move a wall, or destroy it. you can't change the organization of the flat, of your house. and it doesn't matter if hammering a nail in the wall becomes impossible.

however. their house is full of pictures on the walls. nailed.
some wires are hanging, and so they will stay.
some things, no matter how much dignity you use to fight them back, remain incurable.
there we go again with the peculiar pride they have.
it's not a facade, it's not a pride that spends weekends hammering the concrete walls to hide a silly wire.
Karin's parents' pride and dignity, are of the kind that made them buy a piece of land.
















and its this piece of land that deserves my only photograph of the whole journey.
to get there I need my last little travel, deep into the heart of estonia. another 10 minutes of sinking into the forest.
50 hectares between the trees, 5 little houses of scraped wood, a little lake and a sauna.

a field of strawberries.
one of raspberries.
one of blueberries.
one of black currants.
one of white currants.
one of red currants.


a female dog without lace or kennel guards tenderly, though is not completely clear what is she guarding.
her name's Lonni, and she has thousands of warm ravines around to sleep in.
in every little house the refurbishment works have been started and they have suddenly been interrupted by the disease Karin's dad has been fighting for more than a year now.
funny, after the lucky situation that avoided him "volunteering" in Chernobyl, back in 1986.
Martin, the younger of Karin's brothers, is slowly taking care of them when not at school, while Margus (the other one) is doing the same for the land.
the mom got three awards for the unbelievable wine she manages to get from the berries. remarkably the alcohol starts to kick in already at the third glass.

and all around forests and forests. the snow is losing the battle and the dirt track leading to the little houses starts to
show its path again. Lonni lays down on my feet waiting for some cuddles she will always have.

someone holds my hand.
the girl of my life is smiling to me.
in her eyes the secret of those steps in the snow, the depth of that ancient pride and the quiet, infinite innocence of that snow that scares no one.

SIMILITUDO

Le auto hanno una faccia. I cani hanno una faccia. Le case hanno una faccia. E anche le persone hanno una faccia. Ora unite la faccia del padrone a quella del suo cane. Gli occhi, l'espressione, la postura, la personalità, il colore: tutto coincide.

Provate con l'auto, soprattutto le auto di alcuni anni fa (ora si assomigliano troppo fra loro): il cofano, la mascherina, il taglio dei fanali, lo stile nel suo complesso.

Tutto tradisce un'intrinseca e grottesca appartenenza. Perché tutto parla di noi, nel momento in cui si instaura una relazione di appartenenza o di legame. Provate con le coppie di lungo corso: gli anziani arrivano con gli anni ad assomigliarsi, così come i padri con i figli, e non solo per eredità genetica. Si cammina in modo simile, si assume lo stesso accenno, ci si gratta il capo allo stesso modo.

E' un processo simbiotico lento e impercettibile. Useremo persino lo stesso bagaglio di parole ed espressioni. E quando saremo a cena da amici lo rivedremo sul padre dell'amico, nella camminata della madre, nelle rughe di espressione della cugina. Calpestiamo lo stesso suolo da secoli. E' la stessa, unica famiglia di sempre. Solo più allargata.