Afterhours
Padania

I know, it’s a dirty and thankless job, but someone has to do it. Since to this day (April 23, 2012), one week after its release, no one has written anything about this new Afterhours album, I feel a moral obligation to take on this responsibility and face the avalanche of crap that will rain down on me for dipping into the devilish mechanisms that have always revolved around Italy's most loved/hated band.

I'm well aware that I will spend the coming days reading your hilarious comments amid death threats, accusations of every kind, and maybe even some appreciation. And for this reason, I can’t wait (as Pierpaolo Capovilla would say).

Let's start with the title: Padania. Frankly, it’s a crappy title. Beyond all the socio-political, philosophical-geographical, anthropological-humanistic explanations, despite all the analyses, the motivations dissected, understood, shared, and reflected... it remains a crappy title. Maybe it's the phonetics of the word Padania, maybe it's what it represents for a person of average intelligence and development, but honestly, it can’t evoke anything interesting or stimulating. I truly believe that they could have done better, circling the concept but using a different term. For example, paraphrasing themselves, something like "The Unreal Country" would have already been better. In any case, they could have done more.

But let’s get to the album: Beautiful. Fortunately, the reasons for distress stop at the title. The album is a damn great record. I had drifted away from Afterhours after the questionable "I Milanesi ammazzano il sabato," after the useless and inexplicable (as far as I'm concerned) Sanremo experience and duets with Mina, but above all, after the growing feeling that our friends were basking in the idea of having become a band for desperate girls who scream in tears those beautiful phrases crafted with wisdom and for fake intellectuals who love the harmless guitars of singer-songwriters and songs full of introspection about life and love. In one word: boredom. Years ago, Xabier Iriondo left due to divergences with Agnelli regarding the path to follow, with him projected towards total experimentation, and the other oriented towards a greater spread of their message. Two different paths that both had understandable motivations and undoubtedly led to satisfactory results. Afterhours have undoubtedly gained considerable fame over the years, benefiting them today, allowing them to self-produce an album without any record label constraints. Meanwhile, Xabier has developed an enormous experience in creating, manipulating, and applying sounds not conforming to normality, wisely playing with music on the edge of exasperation. The two souls suddenly reunite in the summer of 2011, and by combining the results of the two experiences, they produce a surprising album, the one we perhaps didn’t expect anymore. The album isn’t pleasing and will never please the screaming girls and the mediocre ultra-melodic ones, and precisely for this reason, it has rekindled the enthusiasm of those like me who knew Afterhours well before their success.

It's a complicated album, difficult, heavy and demanding that requires numerous listens to find the key to understanding each track. The power of the sound is impressive, and the arrangements are so complex and redundant that some tracks seem to overflow with sounds without being able to contain them. There are deliberately non-linear melody pieces, without a thread, like "Fosforo e blu," "Giù nei tuoi occhi," "Spreca una vita," but they release an exciting power and struggle with sudden breaks and hysterical, jarring ups and downs that, if not superior, are certainly worthy of the old times. Even in the calmer atmosphere, in lighter, simpler songs at first glance, like "Costruire per distruggere," "Padania," and "Nostro anche se ci fa male," there is an evident pursuit of evolution compared to the traditional song form. These are tracks where there’s no banality, no trace of "already heard" or self-referentiality but that, despite this, when the audience trains their ear, will become great classics. Just like a great classic will certainly be "La tempesta è in arrivo," the only linear track of the album, pleasant, electric, and convincing from start to finish. Personally, I am particularly excited by the album’s start, that fantastic "Metamorphosis" with a stunning lyric and a surprising vocal style akin to Diamanda Galas, resting on an elusive and poignant melody made only of strings (with a D’Erasmo in a state of grace) until the noise explosion opens in the middle of the track, and then "Io so chi sono" with Enrico Gabrielli’s schizophrenic saxophone and a breathtaking finale with even an original choir of demonic children. It's useless to tell you the enjoyment I feel in reading the comments of those who feel lost, who hoped for an easier, more catchy album. The satisfaction that fills me when reading the anger of those who, after the fourth song, would like to throw the album in the trash. In reality, this is precisely what gives me the certainty of facing a great record, the discomfort of those who can’t take it anymore after five minutes of listening is the proof that we are facing a great album.

Music, like any form of art, follows the rules of beauty. Things that seem pleasant right away inevitably have no depth, have no substance. There is no art in what is easy. True beauty is not for the lazy, for the faint-hearted. Beauty reveals itself slowly, at first appearing incomprehensible. It comes to light little by little and then suddenly floods you with its uncontrollable enormity. At that moment, you have found the key to understanding. Finally, Afterhours are back to giving us a beautiful album, a work of substance and depth. An album that speaks of us, of the discomfort we experience every day in this wonderful/terrible country that makes us indignant and angry. An album that speaks of culture, of the desire to express oneself, to shout out one’s anger without constraints. Stuff for those who aren’t afraid to work hard, to dig and sweat to find some meaning in their damned existence.