Appaloosa
Non Posso Stare Senza Di Te

We are in the garage of a small town like any other in the center of the United States: outside it's cold, the litter on the street is blown away by the strong wind and crashes suicidally against the lighting poles. Inside the garage, the instruments are undergoing an intense cooling-down session for muscles and metal strings. The Appaloosa have just finished a sweaty rehearsal session.

Mmmmmh no. Let's say we're in Padua but keep the rest. "Non posso stare Senza Di Te": a fat and raw, relentless, sometimes robotic sound, the illegitimate child of a - reckless, benevolent, reddish - half garage idea that incestuously transformed into something else. Something much more Oneida-like and mad. No dreamy sound but a lot of reality. No "angels fallen from a whisper of heaven", just acid rain and contaminated people: purple, shining, unaware of their own existence. A messy fuzz that mixes everything, a distortion that runs down your spine, an experimental and constantly moving sound. There is no voice whispering sweet words. Metal, electronic, progressive, bare rock and raw with an addition as a complimentary gift of a fragrant fresh-cut punk audacity with an axe.

Do you like wild rock? Listen to this record. The bass penetrates, drills, and digs.
Do you like ideas that try to stick it to the Sanremo of Italy? Well, make yourselves at home then. The drums become one with the pulse of your blood, and for a moment you glimpse your true tribal nature. Yes, in a past life you were the tattoo drawn on the buttocks of a New Zealand orc.
Do you like the murderous look of your uncle as he prepares to kill the pig? Try to reach this piercing music. At this point, the guitar becomes hypnotic, it breaks, and lays out a red carpet under the beats of digitalized electronics in the center of the largest megalopolis in the universe.

You sway a little. Spread this word and the wild sonic underground will be more fertile than before, but know that nothing will apparently change. The stars will continue to fall into the wells, I will keep reading Carver dreaming in a minimalist way (or Gregory D. Roberts and just dreaming), time will not save your soul, and your mother's voice will continue, relentless, to bleed from the ceiling. Silence. A bluish splash on the mirror; the cat that runs away, and you that look into that mirror unable to see anything particularly interesting. You sigh and press play on the player. From now on, your cage is no longer a safe place. Here Comes The Action. Here Comes At Last.