Accept
Metal Heart

THE REVIEW

Away with the cap with a decisive gesture. The foam volcanoes out and mingles with a drop of sweat from my arms. Intrigued, I lick it and then take a hearty sip from the bottle. The glass is cold, and I enjoy a masochistic and fleeting pleasure by pressing it against my burnt neck. I'm thirsty, my mouth feels dry, but I'm slow; I'm in no hurry. I let the malt fill the walls of my mouth for two divine seconds, then I open my esophagus and let that cool, sparkling, and intoxicating flavor descend to birth an aaahhhh of pure satisfaction and pleasure. With arms folded, I survey the panorama and think... I think about the day just passed and TIN TIN!! I give a cold glance at the piece of plastic. Without compassion, I press the fatal pressure point for every Nokia for 3 seconds, declaring its temporary death. This moment is mine, solely mine and there's no SMS that can change that. I use the shoe as a bottle holder and let the ants cross my arm, tickling me. There's no one up here.

We are indeed bastards. We spend our lives waiting; vacations, the game, the concert, the TV show, the movies, the aperitif, the date. We live by counting and burning the days that separate us from one event to another: those which in our opinion are the only ones worth truly living and which in reality... Everything else is just a passage. They are jumps sometimes lasting days, weeks or even months and when they pass, we place even more bets on the next event: the one that will truly satisfy us. Surely. Maybe. Hell no...

I paid a fine at the post office for parking, I have an epic-sized blister on my hand and I cooked a dish of trofie with pesto. I think it was one of the most beautiful days in recent years. It was a moment, a smile. There we were in line waiting for the counter to clear. Maybe I even imagined it, but damn what a beautiful feeling. Since she left with my heart, I hardly noticed anymore and just waited for her SMS. And instead this time, with the excuse of the traffic wardens who for god's sake... Not even 5 minutes. Well, thanks to them, armed with this excuse, at least I tried and she smiled. We'll see...

Damn, it hurts. This blister on my hand feels like a ball. No, I'm not an indefatigable and virulent wanker; I would have a callus, I believe :). I played tennis for 12 years and this morning I felt like picking it up again after a long while. Only that instead of killing this idea as usual, this time I seriously took the phone and got in touch after ages with my old coach to restore my backhand. Wrist, topspin. More. Bend your knees and make sure your arm finishes nice and high in the end. Come on Paolo, for god's sake you can do better. A nice flick of the wrist and voilà, drops of sweat. It felt like going back in time and who cares if my hand hurts.
4 jumps in the pan: junk. This is my daily bread when left alone. Today, however, I felt like preparing a pasta with sauce. Simple, but for me, a disaster in the kitchen, it was a more than traumatic and exhilarating feeling to eat something of my own with a nicely set table.

It's hot. Another slow sip. I look up. The pupils of my clear eyes battle with the full light of an unusually hot May sun. I'm at 1700 meters, and the wind refreshes me, transforming the sweat into salt. I savor the buzz of bees and watch the green taking over the white in the prompt change of dress at high altitude. You understand me, right? I don't know what I'll do tonight. Maybe I'll take the car and go there, or perhaps further down with friends over there, or a good glass of wine with a friend. I could call the girl from the post office. No, don't be an asshole: you also know it's too soon. A slightly boozy evening, a cinema? I don't know. Every damned day we create it ourselves, with our choices, and it doesn’t mean that a very banal and stupid situation can't also give us sensations of well-being like those I experienced today.

It's a bit like the solo of "Metal Heart," an album by the kraut Accept. The mp3 player seems in a tizzy and I've been drilling my ears since I've been smudging this piece of paper from up here. A solo that begins with an idea. The idea is famous and real and is called Für Elise by Beethoven. But how you get there: well, damn, that’s another story. Hoffmann's guitar sings and screws without Vaseline the overly praised Y.J. Malmsteen, just to name one, and his various "Far Beyond The Sun": cold boasts of braggart technique to the millionth power. What Hoffmann produces is melodic scrap metal that constantly seeks its form and when it finds the final outlet and comes to light with Für Elise, it enters directly into the veins and doesn't leave for 2 minutes. There's no doubt Hoffmann is good, but how the hell he created something like this, I don't know. It's a distillation of creativity in its purest form that twists and blooms on a historical axis.

"CDs are beautiful in their entirety."

CRAP.

For the first listens it might well be this way, but after years what withstands the storms of time if it's made of real reinforced concrete, is a song, a solo. Metal Heart, for example.

I wish I were able to build my days, the normal ones, this way. Without too many schemes. Not being afraid to say no, to seem rude, leaving space for my desires. I'll have time to give up and enjoy only the waits... I want to live disorderly, like this wonderful solo. The rest of the CD is very beautiful ("Midnight Mover," "Livin' For Tonight," "Screaming For A Love-Bite" etc..) and Udo rasps it's a pleasure. And thanks to the hell, you metal lovers will say!! Well, since we both know that this is a pearl of TETESCHE metal of the 80s, let's leave it there, for there are other reviews that will scrutinize it thoroughly. For me, Metal Heart is worth its euros for those 2 minutes I described: the rest is fat tips.

Oops the beer is finished. Damn, I knew that another one was still in the backpack. 

thecold