Airbourne
No Guts, No Glory

“Close the door“. The office is the photographic transposition of the Gobi Desert; it's all part of the charade that's now about to take off. “Please, have a seat” while with his arm he describes a crooked semicircle that ends its journey on a chair behind the wooden desk. A chair that, of course, is also part of the theater and is strictly lower than his; the one with the honorable task of supporting his buttocks. It's a pity the chastiser is short and the two heads are now, despite the efforts provided, at the same height. He starts with a forced sigh that comes out much louder than planned. lousy actor. Who knows how many times he must have done this, to feel strong, to feel like someone and to intimidate the other. The words slide: I hardly listen to them. I try to do my best even if I don't like this job. The point is that this quarterly earful is something I can no longer stand. Last week it was my colleague: today it's me. As if he wants to remind us that he's the boss, the Boss. Every morning I tell myself “you just have to hold your breath for another 2 years“. I feel sorry for this middle-aged man. He can't even look me in the face for two seconds: it seems like he’s reciting a damn poem in elementary school. Sometimes he forgets his lines and almost stutters. His eyes, sudden, look upwards to the left for the right anchor to resume his spiel. Pathetic.

“I don’t want to pry, you're free to have your personal life, but”. But you do want to pry into my business, I'd like to tell him. I hate these childish sentences. I'm not racist, absolutely, I think everyone can do what they want, sure, BUT if some filthy n****r bangs my daughter, I swear I'd kill him. I decide to turn off my brain, limit myself to monosyllables, and fake non-verbal communication. I'm pathetic too. When he spouts elephant crap like friendship after work, the temptation to stand up and say “but fuck you” to his face is strong. I grit my teeth: I think about it and then stay silent. After 15 minutes he seems satisfied. He says it's for my own good because I have potential, to straighten me out and for my future. Straighten me out?! That word echoes through the bones of my skull like a voice in a narrow mountain valley. Does he think I'm a damn plant? He even smiles because he has chastised me but at the same time reassured me; if he could, he'd tear his arm off to shake his own hand. If he had the video, he'd watch it again because he believes he's demonstrated his strength, and now he's even magnanimous and asks if I want to drink something. A nanosecond and the excuse comes out as false and clear as a neon sign at night.

The knot in the tie flies off after just 2 minutes and never have notes been more cheerful. As abrasive as the riffs and voice of Joel O'Keefe, I find myself singing and yelling at the traffic light with him the anthems of these impactful songs from their second album “No Guts, No Glory". It's been 10 days by now that it's keeping me company and I know it by heart. I need company and with one hand I text to organize a carefree and slightly alcoholic night. The car fills up: one, two, three pairs of more or less stinky feet wedge into the maroon-colored compact car and the speakers flood the air with aged hard rock presented in a modern key. The week's gloom is behind us, and by pressing the fascist pedal a bit, we leave it in the dust by the second track. A gritty rhythm section and a shameless chorus for a distillation of pure energy in the carefree “No Way, But The Hard Way”, capable of even making us stay in the parking lot of the rest area to wait for its fade-out. The notes easily pass through the windows, and the families of motorists eye us shaking their heads. Arriving at the venue, that dirty den where you can dance on tables once you've finished eating, our vocal cords are already shot, and the CD is exhausted. “Play "Blonde, Bad And Beautiful” again: with that chorus and riff it's indeed a hypnotic and memorable march. Requests come back strong for the aggressive opener “Born To Kill” and the rhythmic thrusts of “Raise The Flag”. But in the end, there are really few of the ladies in the entire tracklist that don't have their moment in the spotlight for our ears.

The place fills up slowly and the hours, awash with amber liquid, flow happily. The teeth, often confined during the week by the airtight lips of perpetually pissed-off, stressed, or tense faces, finally get some air. We exchange band names with people we've never seen while 4 talentless madmen abuse their instruments. With some girls there's even some number exchange that might never be dialed and then, when we're about to pack up, “No Way, But The Hard Way” comes from the speakers, grabs us by the neck, and throws us back on the dance floor as if it were Grosso's goal in the World Cup. I almost don't recognize the notes, but I feel happy and light, light-years away from the dark and gloomy place I was just a handful of hours ago. As someone once said: "they do nothing new, but they play it well". Very well. With an extraordinary verve and strength, “No Guts, No Glory“ is a solid album, simple and reliable that won't leave me stranded in the middle of the road: just like my old maroon car. They might be slaughtered by the more unforgiving critics. It's obvious and predictable that in an annoying and haughty way these 13 tracks will be stoned as a mere and useless copy of AC/DC. And it's true that they've taken more than everything from the Young brothers: nationality, riffs, rhythm section, style and live performance attitude. The point is that with complete honesty, even if I try, I really don't see the negative side; because from hard rock I don't expect originality. I just want to feel the passion in playing and rough fun for a healthy outlet that AC/DC hasn't given me for ages.

Monday will arrive soon. I know, but thank you anyway, Airbourne.