Bachi da pietra
Quintale

Mud and insects, alcohol and blood. Smoke, rust, and Black Sabbath. What if Tom Waits started playing stoner? What if from the filthy, stinking slums of the city emerged a creature made of insane, deformed blues? Or what if it was simply damn rock'n'roll? Blood and sh*t, insects and mud, rage and disenchantment, decay and irony, fuzz fuzz and more fuzz: there are plenty of reasons to get excited over the new recording project from the Succi/Dorella duo.

But this will not be the place.

Just to be clear: this is not a pan, although it may seem like it. No, this isn't a pan, because the CD spins and spins very well, having been in my player for quite a few days: I'm just trying to avoid those grandiose tones that explain nothing and are often found around (see the introduction of the review). "Oh god, what a pain Mementomori is now reviewing Bachi da Pietra too", many will say; or come on, I reply, the five lines of disconnected praise (smoke and blood, mud and insects, fuzz fuzz and more fuzz) will still find space on the net. Mine, rather, is intended as a somewhat more attentive examination of the latest work of a reality now established on the alternative green-white-red scene, no longer the fruit of a temporary experience.

Yes, because if Bachi da Pietra were a time-wasting project, or better yet an emerging little band dealing with their debut, we would be facing a miracle. But since this is not the case ("Quintale," as the title suggests, is their fifth album; behind the mixer is Giulio Ragno Favero, not just anyone; and it comes out on La Tempesta, not the last label), it's reasonable to assume a slightly more critical attitude.

Thus, the adventure of Bachi da Pietra resumes from the guitar distortions and feedback sparks: the sounds are dirty, deliberately lo-fi, but certainly not neglected (the Bachi, as we know, are not novices in this regard). "Haiti," which has nothing of the exotic evoked by the title, is the perfect start, a bang of a start, a shovel load of sludge right in the teeth (black): Succi’s hoarseness rises menacing and corrosive over a heap of thick, powerful riffs, and Dorella takes care of the rest. "Brutti versi" is pounding drums, then hoarse voice and drums, then more guitar lashes, voice and drums, vitriol against the indiscriminate proliferation of trivial works by artist types who would do better to give up their literary ambitions, because money goes but verses remain: the peak of the proletarian, blood-soaked, irreverent rock of the Bachi. And then comes "Coleotteri" (more insects!), unbelievable in its violence: a blow that borders on thrash metal (listen to believe), where Succi comes close to growl and Dorella to double bass drums. The Bachi have never been so violent.

Bruno Dorella is stone: he is the relentless rhythm that breaks time and mud; Giovanni Succi is still stone, the mud that breaks Dorella: he is the guitar that saws the ears, the bark that slaps the intellect. The Bachi are stone, they raise the stakes, and we love to rediscover them so boisterous in their clumsy poetry (wasn’t there talk of a Tom Waits who started playing stoner?). But "Quintale," despite its monochrome (sounds that settle between gray and brown), is a varied album that can smoothly transition from the hip-hop lines of the pleasant "Fessura" (entirely enjoyable, even though it reminds us of Neffa) to the pop languors of "Dio del suolo," a ballad that ends up looking eerily like the national Lucianone (I know, from different premises and toward other horizons, but with very similar results), which I find frankly intolerable. It stands to reason that the Bachi are prettier when they go back to pounding, as in the tremendous "Paolo il Tarlo" (definitely the best of the set) or "Sangue," which alternates between wallowing doom/noise moments and killer restarts. Or when they scratch the skin and soul with the martial step, visionary poetry, and desolate choruses of "Mari Lontani." Also noteworthy are the wild saxophone incursions by Arrington De Dionyso in three pieces, while good Favero (who actively participates lending his guitar in one track and his voice in several others) sprinkles a pinch of Teatro degli Orrori here and there, but without distorting the duo's sound, which injects its deviant blues of Black Sabbath, rust, and many other (heavy) things.

A discontinuous work, then, but with notable peaks. Certainly meritorious on the musical side, perhaps a little less in terms of lyrics: the Bachi are angry, and that's clear, but it feels like they're screaming into the void. Certainly, we don't expect great finesse from Succi, but we're no longer in the nineties, when you could be angry but also a bit playful: in 2013 things are different, our world has significantly worsened, and if you disagree and also want to be a bit of a singer-songwriter, if not a preacher, playing around is not good. It's no longer enough to spit in the face of the system with your dissent, you should do more, strive more, go beyond the obvious and sacred invective. Invective that sounds even more banal and ends up smelling of platitude at the moment the band shuns any in-depth or ideological stance (not that one has to take a stance, mind you, but at least explain yourself, give substance to your position, or at least throw slogans at me and ignite me with your frayed interiority!).

And perhaps here lies the crux of the matter: it's the texts by Succi that don't fully convince, suspended and spiraling between deliberate crudeness and clumsy self-analysis, occasionally indulging in some excessive pretentiousness. Where—the qualities as a lyricist are generally not excellent, and you only need to bring up "Enigma," a reel of more or less known names that essentially ends up saying nothing relevant. And if I take the liberty to make this point (while knowing that rock, by its essence, is also and above all immediacy, and that you certainly don't need to be a poet to make good rock), it's because "Brutti versi" can be applied to many things sung on this album. Too easy, in the end, with the concluding "Ma anche no," to empty the word of meaning, hiding behind a confessed communicative incapacity.

Fortunately, the Bachi do not bid us farewell with the bland double shot of the two concluding ballads: there is still room for a ghost-song, not so ghostly to tell the truth, seeing as its title stands out in the tracklist. It's called "baratto@bachi di pietra.com" and it decidedly differs from the rest of the album, for its entirely acoustic outfit, incredibly clean voice, hip-hop approach (this time) without ifs and buts, and for its humorous (though not so much) text: more than a text, a "cordial f*** you" aimed at fans of the wild download, the bane and nemesis for every musician wanting to survive from their work.

Phew, f*** you dodged (at least this time....)