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.

oh...
true...
christmas...

pas/cal "I Was Raised on Matthew, Mark, Luke & Laura"

when a review of an album starts with "Too few people will pick up this album. It's a sad fact, but it's true"... well... I start to be seriously interested.
'cos most of the bands I love give me exactly that feeling, being it idaho or the slightly more famous guided by voices and so on (you can find both of them in the player here on your right). anyway, I bought the record and I found something funny.
bare with me.

back in the days I found a peculiar relationship between two bands that usually aren't put together. I'm talking about the
of montreal and the
notknownsasmuchastheydeserve lilys. the first don't need much of a presentation, I suppose. for the second you may have to dig in an advertisement of levi's jeans back in 1998. yes, exactly, the guys from nanny in manhattan.

now, for the peculiar relationship: back in the days lilys were some folks from san francisco weirdly gettin' out of the post beatnik revival of the middle 90es. there was a lot of lysergic feeling in them, but they were always able to get some good indie pop tunes out of those complicated songs. I love them.
funny thing is that I found the early of montreal taking with both hands from the late lilys, and viceversa.
I know it's complicated, but in my mind, for some strange reason, these two bands started from the same area, and somehow moved towards each other, givin us awesome records.
let me put this nonsense on the timeline.

in Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? by Of Montreal (2007) I found a lot of Better Can't Make Your Life Better by Lilys (1998), and in Everything Wrong Is Imaginary by Lilys (2006) I found a lot of The Sunlandic Twins by Of Montreal (2005)

wierd, huh?
ok, I know I lost you now.
back to pas/cal. these guys, with their I Was Raised on Matthew, Mark, Luke & Laura (2008) put a record exactly in the middle of this mess.
it's deliciously indie, kindly psychedelic, nicely pop and... guess what? all together slightly confusing. you just put it on and you keep on discovering tunes and parts of the songs that conquer space in your ears.
it's an amazing record, therefore it will never actually make it.
my kinda stuff.

chemistry
2008
Davide De Giorgi

Villa Savoye, Poissy, 2007
Ivan Catalano

bob log III @ the borderline

uno dei migliori concerti della mia vita.
per molti aspetti.
non voglio dire nulla, vi lascio con le parole di qualcun altro:

"And then there’s this guy named Bob Log, you ever heard of him? He’s this little kid — nobody ever knows how old he is — wears a motorcycle helmet and he has a microphone inside of it and he puts the glass over the front so you can’t see his face, and plays slide guitar. It’s just the loudest strangest stuff you’ve ever heard. You don’t understand one word he’s saying. I like people who glue macaroni on to a piece of cardboard and paint it gold. That’s what I aspire to basically.” Tom Waits