Altro
Aspetto

The world is going to shambles. A very banal concept, but true.

Vasco Brondi would say: "Cosa racconteremo di questi cazzo di anni zero". Eh...

The Petrol would enunciate: "Cos'è che ti fa sentire normale?". We should ask those in charge.

And then there are these young people from the Marche, dedicated to a very fast post punk with strong new wave hues, the kind you watch "Closer" and all of 1980 in backlight and you get a very clear communal cross-section. The Altro. But what kind of name is that, Altro? Is there still an "other" to choose? Even the girl on the cover is stereotypical: no mohawk, no dreadlocks, no extraterrestrial fluffiness, just a very normal ponytail.

The fact is that we are here to talk about their new work, "Aspetto", while it's cold outside, there's no snow, the shop windows shine with an apathetic light, and everyone has that syrupy smile on their faces from a post-cerebral trauma, in the name of a celebration that, perhaps, was once one too and has now turned into a triumph of Santas/red drinks/turkeys/money.

Well, these three guys forcefully erase this grotesque imitation of happiness with ten punches to the stomach, in rapid succession, and a gradually releasing slap full in the face ("Stefano") that leaves its redness for days and days. Altro have no commercial pretensions—and they'd better not. They don't have the urge to save the world. They don't want revolutions. Their goal is just one: take the previous "Candore", make it heavier, faster, personalize it, turn it into a lethal machine, and then release it. Someone might be ashamed, perhaps. Someone else will throw it away. Others will listen to it but won’t understand its meaning. But who cares? It's enough for Altro.

Seventeen has always been an unlucky number, since the Roman Empire. This is thanks to a casual anagram of the numeric grapheme, which from XVII became VIXI (vixi, in the sense: I have lived, now I am dead, hence the anapotropaic descent).

The 2000s bring bad luck. So what? Who would ever claim the contrary?

Let's quickly do two plus two, bad luck + bad luck. The solution, at this point, is just one: slap together seventeen minutes of post punk tinged with new wave—we said, right?—even better if devoid of pauses and breaths, put together some lyrics (but this Altro has always done well) and package it all in the form of a compact disc. The shot is terrifying. Try it to believe it.

The sound never stops: in theory, the tracks are eleven, but essentially the sound block is unitary, minimal, with a guitar, a bass, some percussion, and a singer who screams all his anger, without the danger of going into apnea. Seventeen minutes which, however, should not be labeled as "sound slaughter," because they are not: more than violent, the tones are fast and simple, and they contrast well with the short and sharp lyrics. It's an album that well absorbs the grayness of the surrounding reality, exuding a mature frustration amidst an unforgiving real world.

You can feel CCCP, sporadically something of the less hardcore Black Flag, mostly Joy Division, in these eleven snapshots. The titles, except in a couple of cases, consist of a single word: they refer to people's names, the everyday, categorical imperatives, or musty participles. Flat, dry nomenclature, where no alternative is contemplated. Could it be that the "Altro" is precisely a joke?

There are martial tones and acid watts ("Canzone Di Andrea"), circular nonsense, in a gradual and neurotic overlapping ("Passato", the first single, and its continuation "Ho fatto la pace col mio passato/ ho preso un libro sui Templari/ da quando ho fatto la pace col mio passato/ ho preso un libro sui Templari"), distorted and hazy synthesizers ("Stefano", which couldn't be more new wave), there's the bass that becomes a propeller and fans a pounding rhythmic section ("Federico"), the resigned acoustic cantautorial of "Smettere" and "Chiuso", between Babalot and Massimo Bubola ("Così ora lo sai/ quanto è servito nascondersi/ ora che tutto è così/ com'è diverso da prima"), there are the garbled screams ("31/12", which really seems like the twilight and the degradation of the song/form), the cathodic and oppressive, sharpened and directed riffs, as in the percussionistic ride of "Barnaba" ("Non fare passare nessuno/ non fare pensare nessuno"), or in the ups and downs of "Colpito"—absolutely brondiana—or again in the speed of "Ramirez". Ah, I forgot: the gaze of monotony arrives, like in a twisted and incorrect commercial spot, in "Quadro A.", perhaps the best of the lot.

To find yourself and your life, take a listen to this CD. I did it, and now, it's appropriate to say, I don’t Wait for Anything Else.