Died Pretty
Doughboy Hollow

I love the Australians Died Pretty; authors of a debut, the unforgettable Free Dirt dated 1986, where they skillfully drew from Suicide, Velvet Underground, Television, and even Doors. Weaving a precious sound between Post-Punk and acidic psychedelia; nostalgic souls capable of writing wonders. A new traditionalism that of Ronald Peno's band, one of the most passionate voices of the eighties-nineties, and guitarist Brett Myers.

In 1991, after wandering the world with mixed fortunes, they decided to return home to record their fourth album; for me, another undisputed masterpiece. Superior, hear ye hear ye, even to the much-acclaimed (rightly) debut I mentioned just above. A very personal judgment of mine which certainly will not be shared by many of you (what do you think of all this Pinhead and imasoluman?).

I must necessarily open a parenthesis at this point of my writing: Doughboy Hollow is one of my absolute albums of all the nineties. On par with epochal albums for me composed by Primus, God Machine, Soundgarden, Death, Depeche Mode. And as always happens in these cases, I have enormous difficulties in talking about works so important that I have branded them into my DNA; Primus aside because when it comes to cousin Les, all my "fears" of putting myself out there vanish as if by magic. With this, I do not want to find excuses, and I would be delighted to open a debate both on the Died Pretty album, which I will shortly tell, and on this phobia of mine that somehow has haunted me for decades.

But the time has come for the boys from Sydney.

The cover image immediately highlights that austere melancholy typical of the band; then come the songs that have lost much of the charming psychedelic mood so present at least in the early records. They decisively orient themselves towards a rich and balanced Rock that, at times, see the initial "Doused," winks at the fellow countrymen Church of those same years. Evident even a Pop turn in the listening of the light "D.C." enriched by the presence of graceful and sunny keyboards that, at least for once, put a veil of sadness so evident at other moments in the background.

It continues with the sweet and seductive harmony of "Sweetheart," which immediately gives way to the impetuous pace of the rocky "Godbless" (which would not have disgraced the repertoire of certain Athens bad boys, period Document - Green), with a rhythmic section that hammers from the first to the last second. And we come to the masterpiece of the entire album: the six minutes of the slow, enveloping, dramatic in its development "Satisfied." And here the scene owner is Ronald's warm, fluid, and so particular voice; the expanded track slips away until a solo of Brett's six strings suddenly leaves room for a keyboard sound that smells, odors of Ray Manzarek. The song takes off and heads towards a finale that I leave to your fervent imagination: a wonder that always gives me indescribable chills. The mysterious power of Music on my soul.

"Stop Myself," both in singing and sound behavior, opens again my personal portal of memories because it seems to hear Grant Hart when he put it on the purely Pop plane in the last works of Husker Du (but how many bands did I have to mention today!?!). I have followed a track by track up to this point, without skipping a single track; but it's time to stop, a bit regretfully since there are still five songs that would deserve to be honored.

A fabulous album worth the highest score.

Listen to it; blindly trust the DeMa...THE LOVE SONG...

Ad Maiora.