Degurutieni
Dark Mondo

As we all know, besides being great music consumers, the Japanese are a sufficiently quirky people, and therefore a Japanese version of DeBaser wouldn't seem strange.

If that were the case, I'm sure Degurutieni would be part of it, and indeed could be one of its instigators. Half-drunk, he would saturate a hypothetical group of kamikaze slackers/VDM with anything that crossed his mind to listen to, without the problem or displeasure of appearing organic or coherent.

Why? Our hero (hoping he becomes somewhat ours... But if it depends on me, specifically, then, dear Alco - his name is Alco, although he says "Arco" because he is Japanese, Him - I can't guarantee results) presumably came into the world in 1967 in Osaka, more precisely in the delightful context of the Nishinari ghetto, where unemployment, social malaise, and crime concentrate more than sugar in meringue, and where Alco soaked up all the seventies surrounded by the comfort of brawls, shootings, riots, Yakuza Mafia vendettas, and whatnot, eventually getting embroiled in the red-light district antics of Tobita Shinchi.

This social mix, besides making him grow strong and healthy with an admittedly candid Peter Pan syndrome (keep this in mind for later) doesn't prevent him, even as a child, from becoming so passionate about music that he spent most of his stray days in a record shop (the social function of record shops), becoming its most loyal customer and absorbing any influence, whether pop or Industrial.

Just like many around the world, listening so much also makes him want to create. And since most of his Passion investment was in records, Alco contrives to search through the trash, or some remnants of sub-proletarian expropriation Made in Japan d’époque, for toy instruments to modify, playable objects, a battered Tascam possibly sourced from a musician-masquerading receiver, and various other junk he would forever cherish.

Having thus patched up his gear, around 1983 he began exploring his creative possibilities by literally making his own tapes, cover included, and as he became more confident and technology evolved (!), he transitioned to the classic CD-ROM, as a fervent disciple of DIY.

As they say, necessity is the mother of invention...

And of necessity, this lean and diminutive man, often in a white shirt and black tie, makes a virtue, self-producing six works besides this, five of which are private prints and therefore virtually impossible to find.

The only one, besides Dark Mondo, to have been published (in 2006, by Japanese label LD&K Records) and to benefit from an albeit clandestine distribution, bears the wonderful name Iguana Twiggy Pop. Unfortunately, it is a work prone to its cumbersome model, with a shyness that nullifies its potential, reducing it to a not very captivating simulacrum.

Little more than a curiosity, which cannot boast the same freshness as the work I want to talk about, after an endless introduction I’d like to think is justified by the need to frame a little-known musician, who cannot be called original, but personal, yes!

Dark Mondo, ironically (as of December 2020) subtitled frightening music for scared people, indeed possesses some frightening quality, but it’s all a joke. Maybe. The beginning, subdued, consisting of about a minute of saw and keyboard that poorly emulates a glockenspiel and little else, doesn't yet clarify that Degurutieni's guardian spirit is none other than Tom Waits.

Uncle Tom, the more surreal one, appears when Alco imbues his werewolf voice throughout the rest of the album, which is astonishingly cohesive for being an anthology of his production over the last ten years. An absolutely identical voice to that of our former bandit alcoholic idol, with an added beefheartian feature (then again, you know the difference...) leaves you almost speechless for how the whole thing seems at first glance too forced to be true.

And yet, the album climbs quickly, featuring an incredible central body of six tracks. From "Can’t Delete Nightmares", where a ghostly little guitar, seemingly perfect for sinister Mickey Mouse from old cartoons, tries to exorcise childhood nightmares and gets you on the journey you need, on a Saturday night, when what's supposed to end is ended and you decide it’s perfectly okay to act wild, ready to encounter whoever and experience whatever, all included.

You find yourself immediately afterward in "Shanghai", within a 4/4 wrapped by Alco with the right dose of phlegm in his vocal cords, interrupted by three-notes-three reiterated by what seems like the materialization of Didier Malherbe; and it doesn’t matter that it isn’t him, because you’re traveling in this sort of flying teapot that makes you want to make a stop in an opium den, amid fairy-tale reverberations enveloping guitar and bass clarinet, with the whole slowing down and whispering "Blur Blur Blur" into your brain, and Moe Tucker lulling you appropriately before indicating the "Midnight Express" carriage you get immersed in blissfully for the wildest part of the journey, an Indian midnight express where it all rises within you.

The scent of spices is more potent than that of Ganja and alcohol, and in the sudden black flash of a very long tunnel you find yourself clinging to braying bass clarinet corrupted by an analog synth trying to make the whole thing more sinister, without managing to win its battle against a frantic rhythm you cling to, to get dragged towards a misty agglomeration of human flesh.

What kind of definitive night is it if you don’t throw yourself into a wild conga with this mass of strangers who, like you, came here, who knows where, not to be consumed with remorse?

In the paroxysmal frenzy of a city on the thirteenth floor (mom, will it bring bad luck? But those are nonsense, come on!) you hear Alco's voice, surely sweaty and drunk like you, pleading with his sweetheart to save him. But who knows where she is.

Is she perhaps immersed in her equally wild Saturday night journey? Or is she also running not to miss a "Dream Party" that starts with Hollywood-style strings you heard from bed, as a child, before slipping into the oblivion you didn’t want, and a marimba that immediately loops, providing the backbone to what, far from being a party or a dream, is in fact an increasingly obsessive nightmare.

The rest of the program, featuring accordions, little waltzes with three-four time marked by typewriter keys reminiscent of Capossela, deranged and out-of-tune little organs, as in the best tradition, and some vintage electronic disturbance, I invite you to discover.

No, Degurutieni doesn’t have the revolutionary approach of Yamatsuka Eye, doesn’t have the authority of KK Null, doesn’t have the poetry of Kikagaku Moyo, doesn’t have the fame of Acid Mothers Temple (a couple of them help him on the record) and indeed he sweats so much Tom Waits, that gentleman who doesn’t want to grow up (ah, Peter Pan) and who hasn’t graced us with attention for centuries, that he seems like a caricature.

But Alco is sincere, he’s an old bastard who loves what he does.

He tours Europe, especially Belgium for the beer and the girls, he says, muttering in uncertain English and going around both with his one-man show and his Grinder Ensemble, and he books gigs through his Facebook page.

Bless the Swiss Voodoo Rhythm Records, a label with a roster full of wild, genuine, and sinister outlaws, always quite outside defined schemes, which released this album, in part, curiously, recorded right in Italy, describing it thus: Weird Wild Obscure Spooky exotica burlesque toy junk Muzak Trash One Man Band music made with broken cassette desks and fucked up record players.

Now I say it: it could very well be a new fantastic album by Uncle Tom, and I bet that if it were, mainstream media would suffocate us talking about the new masterpiece of the damned poet tomweits thinking it's always cool to say it.

It's not a masterpiece, but it’s a fun and full-of-ideas record. Highly recommended even for fans of the damned poet tomweits.

Finished at 3:59 on the night between Saturday 9th and Sunday 10th November 2024