Elio e Le storie tese
Esco dal mio corpo e ho molta paura (Gli inediti 1979-1986)

THE REVIEW

We were as if we had never been born. Crossed off the care list even by our dearest loved ones. Fortunately. It took just a moment to disconnect from mom and dad and we understood what we were, at least in those years. Hints of a mustache, acne without a solution (continuously for some), a Gilera cba and a Sì for about fifteen people. Age not permitting us to drive. City in the center, sea in front, olive groves and citrus groves on the sides, mountain behind. We were free to enjoy our little corner of nothing.

One day, then, someone came with his grandfather's old vespa. I had a scraped leg because I couldn’t get it off the stand practically. It had been sitting for a while among the rust. I understood why when we took off: first from 0 to 20 km/h, second from 20 to 15 km/h, third from 15 to 10 km/h, the fourth was to turn it off. And so we went in first, with an absurd and ridiculous roar, doing a sort of enduro between the sharp dry stone walls flanking the stone-filled paths deeply carved by the rains. On the sides, ancient huge trees and the scent of zagara. Overhead an open sky resigned enough not to discourage us even with the rain: it knew we would dare anyway. The other two follow us. A moped falls. The two quickly recover, aside from some scrapes, all okay, both back on the move. In the mirror, I see the driver catching fire shortly after. Fire from the belly. He had fallen on the moped, with his belly on the hot exhaust pipe. Laughter and spitting to put it out. Fortunately, we can still continue. The best thing about the vespa was the cassette player taped with packing tape (from now on brown tape) on the handlebar. That day, my friend was playing a tape with lots of silly songs, stolen (why ever ask?) from his not-so-serious high-quality musician multi-instrumentalist brother. Those were songs by Elio e le Storie Tese.

I remember a memory (to always quote Elio/Studentessi), and that's when I first encountered Esco dal mio corpo ed ho molta paura. A cardboard CD, full of visual nonsense that made me lose control of my laughter (even at home, with the pot on the stove) in front of the esteemed shopkeeper (as mentioned in my review on The Dead Weather). He says to me: "Why the hell are you laughing?" and I go "Hell, listen!". He puts it on and the shop first empties, then fills up. Even there, a bunch of idiots with no desire to age gracefully, coming in to pay fitting tribute to this delightful work where "there are some tracks (old ones), some more beautiful and some less beautiful. They are requested of us every time to play them, but we never play them. But, in this record, we have played them, paying homage to those who asked for them but there’s no Alfieri. We dedicate them to those who listened to us in small places and have tapes, from Borgomanero. There are also some truly older things from the secret archives including the song Elio and others." Always citing the Elii.

The same ones talk to us about sparkling topicality and indeed it is. The sparkling topicality makes an idiot laugh riding a reversed vespa and makes the sound shield player at the wheel take their hands off the handlebar. The sparkling topicality is forward music, of all genres: in this album, there’s truly everything from the Italian song to hard rock, from punk to reggae, from jazz to blues. Above all, there is a kind of mean and brazen intellectual communism that mocks the most shared social positions on matters of public interest, mixed with a bit of unhealthy nonsense, but not too much.

Practically we go from (Gomito a gomito con l’) Aborto to Catalogna (at a concert in Milan I asked vehemently for it but Elio called me a Juventus fan...) in a very serious madness that I would not associate with silliness. If it's true that madmen have something to say, in this case, we are dealing with madmen and not fools. The seed of the intuition of the cheerful band (which at the time also defined itself as first in its segment!) lay in many works scattered here and there and then put together, for example, through an operation like this. Our guys played enclosed with an audience invited specifically for the occasion, narrating the deeds in these precariously balanced pieces, recording this retrieval work in no time. Exactly right.

Amazing technical musical repertoire, sacred (and profane) lyrics, undeniable performance capabilities (still today). In short, a great group that had figured out how to put its ass on its face to wash it more comfortably. And with asses instead of faces, Eelst throws everything today (now yesterday, so now I am a victim of yesterday’s clouds on our present-day tomorrow) offers them to feed. If you say "shit" they make a tap dance, if you say sex (in the sense of what you have between your thighs) they pull out a Né carne né pesce, as good as a first course, second, side dishes, fruit, dessert, coffee, and digestive at Tonin’ u vrettu, a place I don’t recommend you visit.

So why did I start the review with memories of when I was at my first jerks now I’ll immediately explain: I don’t know. However, the fact that a certain music makes you remember that you’ve done everything wrong in life, well (!), screws the very idea of yourself as a man representative of a species that also includes many representatives selling fake dicks. And I like when everything, even myself, goes to waste.