Amy LaVere
Anchors & Anvils

When the soundtrack of your existence has become the seminal "Bottana" by Tony Tammaro, perhaps it's time to ask yourself some questions. Why did you shave your beard and now resemble a Begbie of obscure North African birth with a few drops of Rasputin blood? Why is your diet based on red meats, hedgehog and badger cold cuts, poultry plundered from the rustic fields along the river, seasonal fruit obtained through an organized racket involving your brother, a couple of ancient whores, and the old hermit who survives by deceiving the few pilgrims passing by his crumbling abode? Why, when you empty the glass bin at the dump, do you feel the reproach of others upon seeing the enormous quantity of beer, prosecco, grappa Bassanina, and other Promethean liquors bottles?

And so you decided to momentarily halt the pacifying flow of a life lived to the point of degradation. You put away "Last of the Country Gentlemen" for a few days, climb into the barn and hide all the records featuring even the name of David Eugene Edwards, throwing among metaphorical flames Hank Williams and that desolate outlaw Townes Van Zandt. And, with an effort of will, you invent the most suitable hiding places for the most gruesome of your listens. The latrine for GG Allin, the cellar for the Pogues, the junkyard for Napalm Death, the grandmother’s psychotropic medication cabinet for Meshuggah, the area turned into a desert by herbicides for Captain Beefheart.

Away with the rifle with which you shoot at the rats, away with the eternally filthy pair of trousers, away with the river baths among snakes and countless beers. You throw into a corner your battered straw hat, the always sharp sickle, the cigarettes, the mud-covered boots, your cynical indolence, and the company of miscreants you frequent.

Today is a good day to meet Miss Amy LaVere.

With an irresistible voice, a double bass that’s twice her size, and remarkable songwriting talent, Amy rummages through blues algae, country roots, slightly funky sands, and some pop rose petals. And the result, "Anchors & Anvils," allows itself to be touched like a delicate party along the river, between sunset and night, filled with illusions and eroticism, pervaded by revenge as violent as the love that sparked it, traversed by naivety that one can only smile at from the dizzying heights of the passing years.

In "Anchors & Anvils," sketched out by the simplicity of double bass, guitar, fiddle, drums, and mandolin, lie ten songs that, gathered together around a fire, tell and narrate to us about an ordinary life: from the delicate anger of "Killing Him" to the high-alcohol-content despair of "Pointless Drinking," from the nocturnal "That Beat" to the stunningly, naively romantic "Tennessee Valentine."

The beauty of Amy's music does not fade with the tearing of the last vestments of the night: it simply drifts away. A shadow of the moon remains at dawn, pale as the condensation on a glass forgotten by the roadside after a freezing night of drinking.

Left behind, like a forgotten hat, recalled when the wind of reality resumes its persistent path.