Bachi Da Pietra
Tarlo Terzo

Water. So much water. It has not stopped raining for three months. It's the sixth of February, Friday. It rains rain and mud.
I don't know the Cellar Theory. It's on Via Bonito, Vomero. I have never loved that neighborhood: square, odorless, European, and packaged like some neighborhoods of the Roman suburbs that plague my memories and that I often imagine treading during my sleepless nights. Memories that I try to drown in a bottle of Johnny Walker. No, I don't like that neighborhood. And I don't like the Cellar Theory.

It's ten-thirty and I'm early. I'm alone in the place and I'm thirsty. A beer, then two. The place fills with people and starts to smell. And only when the air starts to smell do I realize I've paid three euros for a beer. Then two, six. I'm not drunk, but my head hurts. I'm not drunk and that's much better because for today the 38-euro fine for illegal parking taken in the afternoon will suffice. The only idiot who gets fined for illegal parking in Naples.

It smells of closed spaces, smoke, burning wood, and people departing. It smells of feet in gangrene. The walls are painted red. Cold ceramic tiles. I had left the Bachi Da Pietra at "Tornare nella terra," their debut album from 2005 by two skilled musicians with a more or less important history. OvO, Ronin, Madrigali Magri. Since then, they've released two more albums, and I missed both. "Tarlo terzo" is the last. The third.

Packed in a room that is a corridor. The walls are still painted red. Humid heat. The ceiling is low, and the ceramic floor tiles are still cold. I lean against the wall when the Bachi Da Pietra take the stage and start playing. The acoustics in the place are awful, Succi's words reach me confused and distant, the percussion of the enormous Bruno Dorella echoes, there are people talking and they don't care about Bachi Da Pietra. My head hurts, and I look around: I wonder if there are others who feel the same discomfort. Leaning against the wall next to me is a girl. White, very white. She has black hair, and her dress, black, is low-cut. She laughs. I watch her while Dorella and Succi beat on their instruments. I rely on the hum of the voice and the percussion and look down. I look between people's legs, trying to recognize some step, some movement. An hour and a half, maybe two. Bruno Dorella is happy with the acoustics of the Cellar Theory. I look at him puzzled. I shake his hand, ask him how I can get a copy of "Non io," say goodbye. "Tarlo terzo."

Bruno Dorella, double skin and iron, Giovanni Succi, throat, string, and wood. There's a curious thank you to I Pooh on the back of the booklet.

Servants, dung, bastards. Summer, smoke, coffee, and crystals. Attic stairs. The formula is the same as "Tornare nella terra": Emidio Clementi pays tribute to Robert Johnson and Succi slowly vomits his lyrics on a fabric of sparse guitars and percussion. The formula is the same, but "Tarlo terzo" is more than a confirmation or rediscovery. There is an awareness of their means and that overdoing it doesn't pay. Succi's lyrics, if possible, are as sparse and essential as they are sharp and precise, gut-wrenching. Dorella's guitars and percussion are never intrusive. Dirty. They sway.

There is mold on the walls. It rains.