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Dialogue between Music (melò) and a Savannahian
A painter guitarist, who had crossed very desolate and muddy lands, saw from afar a very large bust, different from those admired years before, and realized it was what he was looking for, a defined shape of a woman wearing a striped shirt with cuffs, a face between beautiful and refined, a high-waisted tight skirt, and a pair of white All-Stars. She, staring at him intently, finally said:
M- Who are you? What do you seek in these places where your kind was unknown?
S- I am a poor stunned Savannahian who has been fleeing the music of Satan and having fled it almost all my life, I flee now for this. I can't help it, it's my body changing, in form and color (this time Yellow & Green), it's in transformAtion.
M- Satan?
S- None other.
M- Thus flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake until it falls into its throat by itself.
S- The cat goes to the lard so much it leaves its paw...
M- Good. So tell me: who now will explain to all those scoundrels of the Red Album that to kiss the girl you no longer need to get the latest from Tarja Turunen?
S- Ehmmm...
M- Have you tried asking Brent Hinds for advice. He also fled and arrived here, hand in hand with that other one... what was he called... Darkfelt, Akerfelt... to seek enlightenment on the music of Satan.
S- No no... How do I then with the university students of the Bohème on Via del Pratello? Look, they are very wicked and afterward, they mock me with the usual tirade of Mastodon's loser cousins, you know? And my analyst said I should avoid trauma and relapses.
M- Flee from them too! You can always say you've grown, that you met Bon Iver at Vasco Brondi's dinner and evolved; that now you have an iPhone, you have over a thousand friends on Facebook even if you see the same 30 damn people for ten years, that you've been with all your tour companions' girlfriends (or perhaps they all have been with yours) and exclaim proudly, "Look mom, I'm mature, I'm big now, I no longer listen to metal, now I play light and intellectual music!"
S- Okay, okay. But what about the little keyboards, the smell of incense, the flirtatious voice like Lenny Kravitz, and the psychedelic-vintage batter as my great-grandmother? Have you heard, the distorters broke, and I couldn't pull out a heavy riff in all 18 songs!
M- It's okay... people will understand... in the end, transporting all those trolleys full of dollars (which is the intrinsic meaning of Green, right?) from one tour bus to another is breathless, I get it. Anyway, the good-thinking adore you, the indie circles esteem you with followers, Billboard welcomed you into its sweaty bosom, and music magazines speak of compositional experimentation and full maturation... in the end, who the hell cares!
S- You speak well but don't know how hard I worked this time to draw the cover. The crayons are running out, and considering that the black and white were taken away from me as a child, I think only brown and maybe magenta are left. By the way: what do you think about "Brown-Kaki Compilation" for the next triple acoustic? For the cover, I was thinking about the depiction of a maiden with a tampon in hand caressing a goldfinch...
M- Forget the colors, the goldfinches, and concentrate on the melody, trust me. More melody! A cheap grunge-pop vocal mix like this isn't enough! Fugazi imitating the Big Country of "March to the Sea" or RATM deciding to play post-rock in "Eula" isn't enough. 75 minutes of music is too much, my dear, when at least half can send you into the vortex of the most imperishable drowsiness in the space of a chord progression. If the goal was to digest the more or less emotional alternative post-rock even to the ignorant people you knew before, the game wasn't even worth playing. Unless your name is Neurosis. More melody, more joy is needed! Not like in the introspection and shadowiness of "Twinkler" and the changing hypnosis of a "Collapse." All these guitars, these Pink Floyd-like references ("Cocainium"), these unsustainable progressive eco-breezes, these singles picked from Virgin Radio ("Take My Bones Away," "Sea Lungs"), these annoyingly liquid but not at all liquorous atmospheres, really seem like tuna cut with a chainsaw, dammit! Stuff that would shatter the privates of the Rostov butcher while reading a Vittorio Feltri editorial randomly taken from Il Giornale's archive! In short, my sleepy traveler, it's time to dare. More refrains! More arpeggios! More girls on stage! More melody, damn it! If you heed these few guidelines, soon you can tell all the scummy Relapse losers to go to hell and, above all, that fuzz that moved from the head to the cheeks and chest can return to its rightful place, even with the help of surgery if necessary. At least you'll be a bit more presentable.
S- Infinite thanks, oh goddess bearer of mild money, your frank warning was strongly hoped for by me. More melody, I understand... The clouds have dissolved, I know the road now...
M- Yes, but let someone else drive the tour bus, please...
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