Cazzodio
Ill Tempo Della Locusta

There are moments, which Ungaretti would call "thirst for poetry"; when you're alone and just want to get high on music and cinema. What your veins need is just a jolt of sonic adrenaline, of gloomy chants, of guitar arpeggios, and you want something truly strange and intangible. So you end up in impenetrable oddities that you've never heard of before, and you don't want to know anything about them. The Cazzodio, an eloquent name. Great. I'll try them.

Ignoring all curiosity regarding Satanism that seems so "cool and damned", and various bullshit, I just listen, without seeking any information, because judging a record based on the curious habits of its musicians is pure idiocy, but let's proceed in order. First of all the titles, eloquent, from  "Vivisecting A Priest" to "Serial Mutilation, Maximum Productivity", to others that are totally incomprehensible and fascinating like "Decuplicazione Della Spore". And beyond the titles? Hell. Our home-grown anti-clericals anticipate the harrowing and dark drone masses of the impenetrable Sunn O))), and in 58, impossible, minutes, they consecrate the desecrating fear of the pain of living. Sound waves, rhythmic peaks, white noise, black noise. A guy singing disconnected and debilitating phrases like "I'm afraid of the world". It's a sound that tears the guts, the harrowing screams of a music that leads to sentimental death.

And there they are, blissfully, behind the speakers to destroy you with nothing. Well, the record is indecipherable, uncommentable. Unlistenable on one hand (impossible to listen to in its entirety, if anyone manages, give me a shout and I'll send a smile as a pledge), disconcerting on the other, it acquires a minimal sense with the distorted frequencies of "Gabbia Di Ferro", where noise becomes a disturbing vortex, on which it only makes sense to slam against an iron gate. Delirious poems, shouted or whispered over untraversable seas of noise. And it's just sheer fucking pain. You remain hypnotized and dazed, but in the long run it gets boring, and everything is enclosed in false provocation or in that name as desecrating as it is ingenious.

Dedicated to voyeurs and troubled souls, or people hungry for oddities.  An useless masterpiece or a glorious mess? Who knows. The fact is that it's composed of moments of genius or repetition. Either you love it or you hate it.

For everyone, however, extreme caution. Or you'll end up getting lost among the sound slits of pure, painful, musical castration.