Danava
UnonoU

It now happens more and more often that I get stopped on the street, at the supermarket, or while the dog takes me out to do his business, by people who ask me more or less the same question:

"Why, Bartleboom, at the dawn of the third millennium, do you persist in listening to mold-rock?"

Until now, I've confined myself behind a stubborn "No comment", or camouflaged myself among the culatelli in the deli section, but today I decided to break the shell of silence I had self-imposed and say what I think.

I think that certain things, in music as in life, are like breasts.
Or clams in pasta with clams. Or money. Or room in the house. Or free GBs on the hard disk. Or toilet paper. Or wine. Or gas in the car. Or parking spots, pseudo-parking spots, or parkable flower beds in the city center. Or colleagues who give you shift swaps. Or taverns. Or village festivals.**
In short: there's never enough

You might know Led Zeppelin I, II, III, IIII; IIII, IIIII, and IIIIII by heart.
You might have also asked your guitarist friend to teach you how to play "Smoke On The Water" and every time you visit him, you sit there with a dopey face going "Da! Da! Daaaa! ...Da! Da! sdleeeng! - damn I messed up!" while he talks about his problems.
You might even have a hippie uncle who saw Hendrix live without having taken hallucinogens.

Then, however, from rainy Portland, Oregon, these four scruffy guys come along with certain mustaches, such mustaches that make you want to toss your razors forever.

You look at them, and in your head, a whole flurry of thoughts and words, deeds, and omissions forms: "Sweat, whiskey, bare chest, Gilda Texter riding a motorcycle naked in "Vanishing Point", smelly cigars, obscene scribbles on the bathroom walls, sunsets, female pubic hair shaved in the shape of a starfish, bar brawls, motel rooms, women of easy virtue at popular rates".

You listen to this almost palindromic "UnonoU" ('08), which is Danava's second full-length, and you can almost play "Guess Who?".
There are seismic distortions à là Blue Cheer ("A high or a low"), but also big intrusive and kitschy keyboards to be honest ("Where beauty and terror dance") and a few little trumpets that sometimes make you turn up your nose and sometimes not. You'll find scraps of tight and somewhat dark hard rock from the Flower Travellin Band and some reminiscences from primordial heavy metal, those '80s ones, which sometimes sound like a well-done mix of hard rock, punk, and heavy distortions ("The emerald sword of sleep"). A few space effects (not too many to be honest) and the photonic and stunning 4/4 drum beat of the Hawkwind ("Spinning Temple Shifting"). And again, Iommi's riffs, some vocal lines borrowed from vintage Ozzy, and a sensational plagiarism-tribute to "Achilles Last Stand" ("One mind goes separate ways").

In short: a real manifesto of the foulest and most dusty mold rock.
The manual of the perfect reactionary rocker.
The practical guide to the calligraphy of '70s rock music.

Absolutely not essential.
But how many times would you have liked to have another clam on your plate? Or space in your house? Or free GBs on the hard disk? Or toilet paper? Or wine? Or petrol in the car? Or parking spots, pseudo-parking spots, or parkable flower beds in the city center? Or colleagues who give you shift swaps? Or taverns? Or village festivals?

** A heartfelt thanks to Jurix and Alfredo.