Digital Leather
Warm Brother

So, last month I was at the pleasant first listen of this "Warm Brother" (2009, Fat Possum) while responding to your well-wishing comments on the review of "Monologue", basking in the dirty melodies of the so-called warm brother, toying with the cardboard case which, besides lacking the customary booklet, doesn't even mention the name of the man (Shawn Foree, or Sean, see the previous review) nor the rest of the band.

If "Monologue" was a godless album like a billiard ball, "Warm Brother" is in its own way smooth, it carries with it this intrinsic sleekness, almost an inherent reductionism to put it in neuroscience terms. Although compared to that punk wave bone that was his first work, some flesh has grown around it, it keeps pounding on my skull, and if it weren't a Sunday at one o'clock straddling the chair, I'd dance to it without any shame because the flesh is good, it's not that fake muscle of a gym rat, but healthy sinew, dirty new wave, served and revered. A bit of the gloominess of the cocktail is lost, but piece after piece you get drunk anyway, and it's one of those drinks that aren't jerks at all, the kind that doesn't leave crap in your mouth the next day, the kind where you collapse into bed crooked but happy, and in the end, you don't give a damn about finding a world on your shoulders.

One piece at a time I wander the web in vain searching for some listening from the middle albums, I drag myself to the sink for a coffee before lunch keeping an ear on the lyrics, and I light up in a shitty way right from the title (which I recall as the nickname given by the Nazis to homosexuals) if the lyrics indeed have their reason for being. For the rest, this digital skin wraps me completely, and dancing cup in hand, I return with my thoughts to the good old days when beauty still shone on my laughing and fleeting eyes, and creation was a shitwonder if one believed they could enjoy the love of creatures, for better or for worse shit, until shit do us part... and instead, like when it's raining shit outside, the album unexpectedly ends.

The terror of being chased by this Sunday like another grips me by the knees, and the worst Italian pop comes to me from the neighbor's apartment, and I just manage to stretch out a hand and start it all over again, I take a breath, I take courage, I resume the dance, and being shipwrecked is sweet to me in this shit...