Alkaline Trio
Crimson

To my great regret, the music scene has recently been inundated by groups that have little to do with music and mostly rely on their image to secure heavy rotation on MTV and radio, popularity, and a flock of adoring teenagers ready to worship them if successful. Fortunately, I don't belong to this group; I'm a bit of an anomaly, yet I am proud of it: being a slave to a "false music" of poor quality is the last thing I would want.

A week ago, some friends invited me to their house to watch a movie together (specifically the DVD of "Ice Age 2") and to enjoy a pizza in good company. We then started talking a bit and ended up on the topic of music, with everyone, as usual, listing their favorite genres and artists. I had to endure a list of terrifying names I won't even describe to you - premature death is a terrible thing - but once again, I stoically dodged the subject, resisting the homicidal impulse to take the water bottle and soak everyone present. So, when asked: "You, Bisius, what do you listen to?" I downplayed with a heavy heart: "Oh, the usual stuff, what can I tell you."

At one point, a friend of mine (the host) stands up, slaps his forehead, and exclaims: "I was forgetting! Listen to this CD! I bought it two days ago! It's a bomb!" Well, what can I say. I learned very early to be wary of friends' advice on buying albums and various CDs. Therefore, with a strange feeling, I stopped him abruptly by asking: "What CD would that be, Tommaso?" And he, all cheerful: "I can't remember the title anymore! But it's the Alkaline Trio!" Stop. The Alkaline Trio? Those guys who put black circles around their eyes to act tough and play music they presumptuously call dark punk but is actually just a blend of disjointed sounds halfway between pop and a strong stomachache? At the moment, I'm fogged; I can't remember. And I don't have time to avoid the massacre. Everyone else is delighted, cheering at the mention of the name, and there's a chorus of "cool," "what a nice name," "I can't wait," "let us hear." I don't join the joyful chorus, but no one notices, thinking I'm lost in my thoughts. Tommaso returns from his room with a suspicious package. It's "Crimson," the CD whose title even he couldn't remember anymore. Well, whatever, it won't kill me. Turn on the stereo. Insert the disc. Aim, load, fire, or rather play.

I find myself half-fainted on the floor of Tommaso's house a couple of minutes later, with all my friends surrounding me anxiously, while one of them asks: "Marco, are you alright? Do you want us to take you home?" No, damn it. We have to go out later, we have to go to a pub. It must be the pressure; what can I say. And immediately, my pulse skits another beat, and I pallor suddenly. Heavy pizza? No, gentlemen. It's the background music that's making me sick. It's that damn CD. I try to murmur softly: "Tommaso, take that disc out," but my voice is too faint, and no one hears me. What's this stuff? Terrifying! I get handed the cover. So. With trembling hands, I observe that the song that made me faint was called "Time To Waste," and the one playing now is called "The Poison." The first one, which opens with a piano theme that would make Ludwig Van Beethoven turn over in his grave, has a pace that could make a funeral procession envious. The music? A guitar strum here, a phlegmy strum there, a chorus straight from the no-limits fantasy of Cino Tortorella.

"The Poison"? A drum gallop that would drive the smallest children to despair-induced suicide, followed by some acid riffs. Be careful not to misunderstand the term here: by acid, I mean corrosive, to the extent you end up with a massive stomach ulcer from disbelief. Well, it's over. My face visibly brightens again, and just as I jump to my feet and begin the typical Bisius phrase: "Guys, it's getting late, let's head out, the pub awaits us," the third song starts. Premonitory title ("Burn")? How should I know? What's happening is a rush of heat spreads through my body, my knees buckle, and once again I slip to the ground - I get away with the clever excuse of an untied shoelace. Guys, at that moment, I felt like calling Childline to report these charlatans for an affront to the Christian morals of the country. Or as dear old Germano Mosconi would say, "Is it possible, damn it..." umm. As usual, record producers outdo themselves. In idiocy.

Enough, now I rebel. While a very slight emo-core background closes the song, I approach Tommaso intending to tell him not just four, but four hundred [things], and you know what comes out? "This CD isn't much." I die of shame. Well, at least the evening wasn't wasted. While my friends look at me with disdain (apparently, they really liked the CD), dejectedly Tommaso goes up to the stereo and turns off the abomination. The pub already has its doors open for us.

10:30 PM. I return home. My parents are in bed. I feel a bit dizzy from tiredness. I then make the insane decision to turn on Limewire and check if, indeed, the whole CD is worth discarding or if those first tracks were misleading. About ten minutes later, all the contents of today's dinner and lunch go straight down the toilet. With my relief. And I regain my clarity. What the hell was I thinking? Am I a masochist? No, fatigue often plays these tricks. So, what to say about this album? Well, it's an excellent remedy in the absence of plant fertilizer. As music, it is simply pathetic. I didn't pay attention to the influences present within it to enhance the narrative - which is indeed true. But now I mention it briefly. Well, these dudes, led by singer and guitarist Matt Skiba, claim to be dark punk or, if you will, emo-core. In reality, they are unclassifiable, not because of mediocrity, but because they have nothing original of their own. NOTHING! One moment they mimic the Ramones ("Mercy Me"), another time they draw inspiration for riffs from Blink 182 ("Fall Victim"), and yet another time they completely plagiarize the Clash (many songs) adding a touch of softness or an emo-core splash. In short, sometimes, not content with copying from the greats, they even copy from the not-so-greats! Truly indescribable the disgust experienced when listening to this album. So, instead of heeding Umberto Veronesi's health advice, listen to ME.

Don't buy this album if you want to enjoy the coming years in peace. Unfortunately, this is what the convent offers. But that doesn't mean one should succumb to the rules of commercial power! Everyone, and I mean everyone, should actually favor the rise of alternative and sprightly groups, who don’t care about success and instead aim to (excellently) create their music.

So, final appeal: WE CAN SAVE THE MUSIC NOW! LET'S GO! Requiem.