Blink-182
Edging

The days of high school are long gone, the years of MTV, the screaming crowd in Piazza del Duomo under the TRL terrace occupied by Marco Maccarini, Giorgia Surina, Andrea Pezzi and (last but not least) Alessandro Catellan. And it's been over twenty years since the release of "Enema of the State". American Pie hit the theaters and our Blink 182 were even part of it with a cameo and their “Mutt.”

After twenty-three years, "What’s My Age Again?" still entertains us like it used to, and we still laugh seeing Mark, Tom, and Travis run along the shore in their birthday suits. It was the soundtrack of our spring, then summer, and even the autumn and the following winter. "All The Small Things" remains in our heads with its parody video and "Adam’s Song," with its plucked riff and melancholic mood, has never left us. What times. What fun.

We discovered the discography in reverse, digging into the deepest grit of Californian pop punk, with that off-key and squawking voice that made us think of boozy parties and nights of extreme sex (honestly, more like self-indulgence). Then we continued the journey with the genius of "Take Off Your Pants and Jacket" (and its cloying pun in the title). We enjoyed the three bad boys from Poway as they embarked on side projects, amidst a few quarrels and resentments, without realizing that something irreversible was happening. Meanwhile, an adequate but insufficient self-titled album and a Greatest Hits, disguised as a juicy consolation prize, hit the shelves of Mariposa. Then came the unjustified absence of the trio at Music for Relief (founded by Linkin Park to support the victims of catastrophic natural events) in aid of the victims of the 2005 Indian Ocean Tsunami. Ultimately, the breakup. Tom formed the Angels&Airwaves, Mark and Travis the +44, with whom they released a single decent album before disappearing. Then the cards were reshuffled: Tom and Travis without Mark with Box Car Racer, Travis solo with Transplants and solo projects with collaborations out of earshot.

The helicopter crash of Travis, perhaps saved by the same angels from Tom’s band, the reunion, and a new terrible album "Neighborhoods", clearly tainted by synthesizers and electronic loops of DeLonge's band’s traveling sounds.

The breakup with Interscope Records, the pointless EP "Dogs Eating Dogs", and more confusion. Misunderstandings, arguments, back and forth through social media, and again everyone on their separate paths.

The new Blink, without Tom, brought in Matt Skiba from the Alkaline Trio. It’s the dawn of a new era, burying the past and trying to assure us there will be a flourishing future.

"California" (and then its Deluxe Edition) and "Nine" are not bad, with a nice cover and bringing a handful of interesting singles (No Heart to Speak Of, among the best). But without too many pretenses and lacking soul. Matt Skiba does his part but isn’t the geeky alien lover like Tom. And let's be clear, he’s not part of the family. He sings with that shy voice, like something coming from the throat of some naive contestant on Amici di Maria De Filippi; he holds the stage like a stockbroker and practically never stands out. He’s "alkaline" perhaps only in the body's relationship with ingested fluids. From this new experience, we extract above all a bitter awareness: The Blink 182 we knew, are no more.

Two years of pandemic made us think of much else, the masks decrease, and we arrive at today. Fall 2022. I’m minding my own business when an Instagram notification catches my attention, dropping on the display from the drop-down menu. I click, the 4g struggles a bit, then the post opens. You know those open-handed slaps received from the girl you like, as a sign of reconciliation? Joy covering up the pain. I think, it’s probably yet another post by Travis Barker about his wedding with Kourtney Kardashian in Portofino. But no. A video starts with a super babe lying in a pool, an obvious reference to the past's parodic sexuality and the recurring phrase of the protagonists: "They’re gonna come!"

I check it better, scroll through the comments, go around the various web pages and then I have the official confirmation: the Blink, as we remembered, are back. The news even mentions a tour (far from imminent) almost two years long, starting a year after the reunion. The air smells of secondary ticketing, tickets are for sale at the cost of a kidney and a cornea and while the most active part of my brain tries to even think about what to do, I realize they are already sold out. Fedez will have one for himself and all his social family, I reflect angrily.

But oh dear. There is also good news. The new single is already available, heralding the new album well in advance. The track is called "EDGING" and it's written in uppercase. It has to be something big, I think to myself and the part of my brain that’s still awake. Then I remember what that title means in Italian: control of orgasm. Good memories, I still think. And I plan on having to change.

I open Spotify, get comfortable and start the track, curious and a bit sweaty, because I’ve already begun to hold back, just in case. Travis starts drumming, Tom enters immediately and it's an instant revival of the golden times. The vocals exchange and Mark arrives, the riff in the background is banal but recalls the classic sounds of yesteryear. I buckle up and wait for takeoff. The riff loops, and we reach the chorus. I arch my lips, think back to the pornstar on the cover of "Enema of the State", see again the branded buttocks of the bull on "Dude Ranch" and the close-up of the alley cat on "Chesire Cat" and I prepare myself. "They’re back, they’re still together!" I keep telling myself, ignoring the stale loop of "EDGING" and the sad reality conveyed by the banal text. Am I perhaps pretending not to hear? I think I am. And I unconsciously stopped holding back. But I realize that the tune is getting stuck in my head and will keep me company even through the night.

I think it’s all normal. That when time passes, music changes but there are always the old songs, the eternal ones, that will take us back in time and make us cheer.

We’ll be able to hear them all once more, with Tom, Mark, and the legendary heavily tattooed Travis on the drums. All of them in one evening, during a memorable concert we’ll tell our children and grandchildren about when they face their adolescence proposing pseudo-punk armed with autotune at full volume.

But the tickets are gone. I had forgotten. Never mind, come on.

I throw down the blue pill. I swallow the red one. Despite everything, I want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.