For a teenager, or rather a child, who grew up with Nirvana, Flipper seemed like Polynesia. Everyone talked about them, everyone with their self-designed shirts... To me, they had the sound of the exotic, the esoteric... they were a secret.
Many tried to order one of their records after praying to Saint Januarius (but the saint only recently replied, saying he was busy listening to Paranoid with headphones and therefore couldn't hear us), many were left empty-handed. For years, wherever I went, I asked about them, but no one seemed to have seen them.
One day, a few years ago, I arrived in London and the first English word I thought was Flipper, and that's how I found them, but not quite as I wanted: "Generic Flipper," their 1982 record, the mythical one, hadn't even passed through there, but the consumer inside me consumed this "Blown'n Chunks."
This album, printed in 1984 by ROIR (which does a lot of great things), is a testimony of one of their concerts held at the CBCG in New York in November '83. The sonic depravity they brought around the States (a mixture between the rhythms of Joy Division, the nihilism of early punk, the hypnotism of the Stooges, and a guitar that seems made of amphetamine), which inspired the youth of that period greatly, is thrown in your face with almost no production filter: a live that feels like a live, basically.
The first listen was tragic, the second even worse, and the worry of having wasted my money gradually grew, pushing this record to the third row of my collection, the row destined for things that hurt the heart (in memory of wasted money) and pride, between a Staind record and the live of The Wall. Today, after years of sacrifices, like a good underdog, "Blow'n Chunks," managing to complete its social climb, stands in the side row, the one destined for rare stuff: ...the ascent to Windy Hill is complete.