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Rating:
I have the Gino Castaldo syndrome, and so I effortlessly move from the news of the upcoming new album of the Adolescents to the voting for Michielin's song at the Festivàl, from the Moda of Chimenti to the Modà of Kekko. Only, no one pays me, and thank goodness.
A short time ago, I attended a Calcutta concert, which in a city like Palermo, reduced to a historic low, almost seemed like the event of the year.
It was interesting to see this generation of – more or less – thirty-somethings, grappling with this new course of Italian indie. Italian indie has shelved the poetic hoarseness of Rino Gaetano or the Baustellian decadence, but also that visceral somewhat Marlene, After. By the way: have you already heard that Manuel Agn...ok, I'll stop.
Today, Italian indie is lively, consonant, catchy. Minus the regression of the “Cani” project, sold out with poor results to the allure of pop traditionalism, today Calcutta and The Giornalisti are competing who have found less “suffering” models, diving into the Emiliana Stadio-Dalla-Vasco axis.
Yes, because in the end, this “Mainstream”, Calcutta de Latina's debut album, you hum it just like one of those raucous anthems of the national Blasco mixed with Pezzali-Repetto also blessed by indie, with its own tribute.
And in the end, this little story of a song that sticks in your head and you sing at the top of your lungs, isn't so bad. And not so bad are the lyrics either – strictly indie-contrary -, with the jab at De Gregori or the usual, apathetic narration of the boy from ‘82 far from symbols, ideologies, roots.
I think that for lack of ideals, the '80s generations should break the world and create a new one. But you know: Facebook, the internet, “wake up!!11”, the girl who won't give it to you, existential issues from a Big Brother confession booth, force these new saplings to accept the first receding hairlines without creating – what do I know – a new '77 or some sort of pseudo-political hullabaloo. A generation capable of being worse than ours, that of the mid-seventies, so caught up in mafia massacres, Costanzo Show, Samarcanda, and ovations to Venditti. A generation that led straight to unsettling oxymorons like “Civil Revolution” and idylls of discourse as useful as an anal orifice in an elbow. Let's move on; it's better.
The album flows pleasantly and is a bit repetitive (which is then an aesthetic trait of 99% of independent albums). It doesn't improve the world, but neither does it worsen it. The phrase “I read the newspaper and there’s Pope Francis and Frosinone in Serie A” could comfortably stand in a campfire singalong or an impromptu compilation of road trip songs. But not just Frosinone, “Cosa mi manchi a fare” is also a pleasant piece and showcases an authorial inclination that could be at the service of the first Noemi that comes along. Also because this youngster has a decent knack for the poetic form in music also suited to the charming mainstream of tomato pop.
We who drool over Tony Conrad and Faust, are also a bit children of Italian pop, which I claim because even in a Noemi song written by Calcutta, there's something pleasant hidden, to be consumed in a summer note.
Whining while holding some masterpiece of CCCP or the school of Pordenone in your hands is useless and stale. Those who saw in the new independent scenarios a new wave of Italian music with the bow of the class topper were left a bit disappointed. So, for now, Calcutta passes into the convent. At least we can sing along to it. And that's not little.
Tracklist and Samples
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By n3o
Mainstream is by no means an album to proudly display in your collection, with so little, it unfortunately has way too much to say.
What’s left, in the end, are the remnants of the hangover of a relationship, like the taste of a drink you have in your mouth the morning after having spent a wild night.
