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There’s no point in laughing at me, you bastards. I’m not Luzzato Fegiz: I attend concerts with a cassette player from '68 and breath reeking of wine. When Bertoncelli flew to New York to interview Bob Dylan, I was taking intergalactic trips rolling the stinker. And when Guglielmi was writing "The Encyclopedia of Rock," I was watching a thriller-porn at Tommaso's house, competing to figure out who the murderer was first.
I make up my reviews as quickly as possible because I’m at Khaled the Tunisian’s internet cafe, and I don’t pay him with camels; Red Ronnie took 10 years to make up that he discovered Karate.
Every year we great metal priests gather at the International Congress: we choose missions to gather information on anti-metal forces that distance young people from metal and Nilla Pizzi. This year, it was my turn to cover dEUS.
I arrive at the appointment 6 hours early; there’s no one there, so I decide to wait in the adjoining pub. It’s just me and the bartender, who tells me his whole life: I’m there, listening to the time the Celtics kicked the Rangers’ ass, and I get drunk like a hooligan. I discover the bartender also watches thriller-porn. Then, at the best part, when he’s about to reveal who the murderer was, I decide to exit his life.
Outside, there are Tom Barman and Mauro Pawloski arguing with a guy, while someone in a wheelchair waits for an autograph. With a mischievous and inhuman gesture, I rid myself of the only peaceful being there and find myself with Tom.
“Hey Tom, how’s it going?”
“Good, and you?”
“Great (dang, what a devilish interviewer I am). What’s happening?”
“A guy wants to sell a ticket at an exorbitant price to a girl.”
“Ah, don’t look at me, I’m a metalhead but I don’t have a penny. So? When are we releasing this album? Come on, tell me something, and at least tell me if you like Mauro, if it’s true that Carlens will sing on the new record, and what evil fate befell Ward, and if this line-up is meant to last, if it’s true that the new drummer hits like a beast, that Klas Janzoon has gotten frighteningly fat, if it’s true that you knocked over De Borgher with a foul intervention from behind, and if it’s true the new album will be more "up-tempo". And - above all - tell me what the hell "up-tempo" means because - I swear - I’m a metalhead but I don’t know.”
“Yes, yes, it’s true.”
“What, it’s true?”
“In the spring, if all goes well, the album comes out, the songs are ready. Mauro is doing great.”
“What’s the "up-tempo" stuff?”
“It will be different, different from the previous ones, new people new sound.”
Great, I had 5 questions to give to the Congress, and I used them all up. This "up-tempo" stuff smells fishy to me, and since I’m a metalhead but not stupid, I don’t trust it; I watch Tom walk away, he reaches the intercom, someone answers: “who the hell is it?” and Tom goes: “police, idiot.”
And since I haven’t changed my mind and I’m still a metalhead, and cops are usually born and die as posers, I continue not to trust. I decide to re-enter the bartender’s life: this time it’s me, the bartender, and the toilet cleaner. The bartender has just finished telling his life story to the toilet cleaner, but he already knew who the murderer was and sighs a bit. We listen together to the concert of the Scottish brutal band "Regorge" and mosh like beasts on "Inverted Throat Fuck."
I snap a photo for the congress and already know they will be proud of me.
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