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Italians do it better: part 2
Once said, and done. Two years after the armed assault of their self-titled debut, Calibro 35 from Milan (hates), Italy, really lay it on thick and put together a thrilling, breathless, greasy, and rusty sequel, like the bullets whose trajectories, targets, and victory certainties they happily evoke. Firearms whose barrels, already wide enough by name, are destined to draw even broader circles. A dirtier attitude, less philological but, hear ye, hear ye, out of thirteen tracks on the list, a solid eight are originals. Aside from the obvious Morricone, which is now even a subject of attention for Nepalese goregrind bands, the other four oil stains on the asphalt are a very specific message directed at Gianni Ferrio, Piero Umiliani, Riz Ortolani, and Stefano Torossi. A challenge that just slightly overshadows the impressive work, this time, of construction and not just re-elaboration, though more engaged, one must say, on the other side of the ocean, around the Stax area, than rolling down the Boot to the rhythm of prog and funk.
And Italians do it better indeed, when considering that one of their own tracks, the thundering opening with "Eurocrime!", is a candidate, definitively, to shake off the subservient role of "reference frame" and fully become a soundtrack, more specifically for Mike Malloy's intriguing documentary entitled "Eurocrime! The Italian Cop And Gangster Films That Ruled The '70s", centered on you-obviously-know-what. One cannot be too surprised by this real investiture, as the track is truly excellent, super tough especially, set in dark suburbs where the main riff (by Massimo Martellotta) tears apart the samba carpet created by Enrico Gabrielli (Mariposa, Afterhours) just like a police siren creates panic in the petty crime neighborhoods. It's completely wrong to think, on the other hand, that the rock soul of the supergroup—one of the few times that term isn't used arbitrarily, why not stick it here?—has signed its own testament purely because of this surge of blaxsploitation flair (which boldly reappears in the shake of "Convergere In Giambellino", and barely moderated by an erotic-lounge taste with a knife between its teeth in "Gentil Sesso E Brutali Delitti"). "Piombo In Bocca" is a ruthless tank advancing, creaking and swaying, with a wah-wah torn in two by a sinful horn section. Also, there is even a ferocious paso doble on "Il Ritorno Della Banda", divided into two parts—the first a solitary tete-a-tete Piccioni-style, the second set squarely amidst the compulsive reiteration of the main attack, secondarily frayed by banks of vibrato—to better permeate the message.
Then, the great classics. The selection of which, allow me, has been even luckier this time compared to the previous, as the perfect counterbalance to the minor shortcomings encountered in a personal writing style not yet reaching its full potential (ambitious, for example, the closing "Si Dicono Tante Cose..."). The haul, already plentiful in itself, grows exponentially. "La Morte Accarezza A Mezzanotte"—from the 1972 namesake film by Luciano Ercoli—is nothing short of disorienting, in a continuous acid prog give-and-take that glides over a gloomy music box and on layers of keyboard sounds of terrifying subconscious power. "Milano Odia: La Polizia Non Può Sparare" moves with the martial gait of Giulio Sacchi's bloody exploits, with a bass frenzy being pushed back perfectly by guitar stabs. The choice made for "Cinque Bambole Per La Luna D'Agosto" is unique, as it does not hide under the central theme of Mario Bava's namesake film from 1970, but under a secondary track from the original soundtrack, "Ti risveglierai con me", composed by Umiliani with Balletto Di Bronzo, a historic prog formation from the '70s. The result is lethal, a kaleidoscopic prog-funk fragment of just over two minutes with immediate appeal and remarkable impact. "Sweet Beat" by Torossi becomes "Sospesi Nel Traffico", a sultry Andalusian crossroad with deep pianistic breaths, when "Il Consigliori" (by Alberto De Martino, 1973) maintains its charge of easy-deflagrating psychedelic noir intact.
While you rush around, they laugh. And win. By a wide margin. Once again.
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