Fluxus
Pura Lana Vergine

That damn divinity called mainstream has claimed, mercilessly, another victim.

The Italian music market is one of the most horrendous seen in the past decades. If you don't have a famous dad, mom, or both, if you haven't received the right recommendations, if you don't conform to the dismal game of "sunshine, heart, love," if instead of looking at reality through a hazy veil, you shake your head angrily and scrutinize the world grimly, if you decide to expose all the disgusting moralism rampant in the Boot, if you can't hold your tongue... you don't make it. It almost seems intentional, a damn catch-22 that prevents you from aiming high, that clips your wings and silences you imperiously, forcing you to disappear into nothingness, leaving behind an endless trail of regret and repressed shame.

The Fluxus is one of the depicted bands.

Who has ever heard of the Fluxus? No one: born as a quartet in 1991 in Turin from the ashes of Negazione, initiated by singer and guitarist Franz Goria, they were immediately confined to the most remote Italian independent scene. When governments led Italy to ruin with far from judicious and reasonable choices, they were there. And who heard them? No one. When news of crime sprees was rampant on television, and fingers were dramatically pointed at the justice system, they were there. Less melodramatic, more incisive, and determined. And who heard them? No one. When the despair of the suburbs drowned in its own grayness of disused factories and sad vigogna, they were there. And who heard them? No one. Their engaged lyrics, halfway between punk nihilism and poetic denunciation, never trivial or clichéd, with a bitter aftertaste, always went largely unnoticed.

Everything assumes even louder, almost scandalous, tones when looking at the sound component of the Piedmontese group. Since their debut (the unknown "Vita In Un Pacifico Mondo Nuovo" from 1994, now impossible to find), the foothill quartet has built, step by step, thanks to the contribution of two electric guitars and two basses, a majestic acoustic wall, mighty and resonant, sailing between hardcore rhythms and noise/punk insertions, all seasoned with sustained screaming, but never intrusive or inappropriate. One of the best things Italy has ever had the chance to hear, in short. Confined in a dark corner, half-hidden.

"Pura Lana Vergine", the ideal follow-up to the devastating "Non Esistere" (released in 1996), comes out in 1998, and is perhaps the most beautiful work the band has ever accomplished, during all its artistic journey, suffered and troubled. Now more than ever, the lyrics reach peaks of boundless intelligence and vitriolic sarcasm, against a stepmother society that has as its sole purpose the intention of mocking us all, indiscriminately, with a nonchalance that sometimes seems almost impossible to hide. The Fluxus certainly do not seek half measures, do not crave the static inevitability of the sound timbre, even at the cost of provoking annoying tinnitus in the listener. Space and time are two secondary components for our heroes: the pieces are fired in succession, one after another, like in an infernal spiral that the more you try to avoid, the more it drags you down into the terrible chasm of reflection and why.

There is the animal instinct of "Uomo Ghignante" ("Act as you know, move as you know, defend yourself from the world's fire"), which blatantly contradicts the rules of society to come out, baring its teeth, flipping the bird to the airplane of negotiation, while a pick moves hypnotically to pluck a chord of hypocrisy. There's the epileptic rush of "Senza Protezione", a destructive noise track that repeatedly folds in on itself in a vicious punk circuit, while the double pedal insinuates itself mocking to probe the arduous escape route ("My muscles contracted from the cold, slow movement / Of hours, of gray days, of sky of cement / Of hours, of days, moments, fragments") from those presumptuously calling themselves "politicians."

There are the offbeats of the -heavily censored in the MTV environment- "Lacrime Di Sangue", a hardcore onslaught of ferocious cynicism, playing to be the ignoble moralist (extraordinarily well) with those who worry, more than wars or diseases, about the prestige and nobility of the clerical environment ("Explain the mystery of the blood that melts / Holy hemorrhage, full of grace!"). But there's also the chilling "Giro Di Vite", a quick, heretical fresco of anxiety that creeps among the victims of consumerism, subjected to an undefined and imaginative power, without being able to oppose or rebel ("Time contains our illusion / I have nothing else to remember / It is not the engine of my fears / I can't stay in this flat, boring vital geometry / Made of sky that clutters / The space of its madness").

"Le Cose Che Non Cambiano Mai Poi Cambiano In Un Minimo Limite Di Tempo" the Fluxus stated, almost ten years ago. And it is a philosophy that, if at that time appeared pessimistic, now it appears only, dramatically realistic: the thrash metal raging throughout the song closely resembles the work of the Slayer -Goria in some points seems like a bad cousin of Tom Araya-, the lyrics run through with a shiver of ferocity that ascends quickly in a climax of despair.

The Fluxus don't just describe today's reality: they cast a glance at the past, between the shadows and lights of an ever partial and unjust State.

"In the old school they gave us grades and there were quite a few... poor kids, in the sense... children of workers who didn't earn much, and they couldn't really be... how to say... children of the rich... like Agnelli, etc. And they were there, the meanest kids, those who were in the donkey line, who were children of workers. Instead, the best ones were all children of employed persons, who were earning two hundred and fifty thousand lire a month, right... and this didn't seem fair to us and that's why we changed our behavior and type of old work. In fact, now we don't give grades... I mean, the teacher doesn't give us grades anymore, the report cards are all the same... for us, it's like throwing away the report cards... in our type of school, there is neither last nor first, we all move forward together".

Not even the Second World War was enough to horrify the world about the scourge of racial disparity. Between the '60s and '70s, in Turin - and in Northern Italy in general - the division into social classes was carried out relentlessly, the inequality between workers, laborers, and employees, directors, obviously favoring the wealthier. The Fluxus coldly testify to this inexplicable behavior with testimonials from those directly involved, the children of different workers, faded memories from some archive recordings, with their thin voices, which incredibly contrast with the content of the messages themselves. The title is mocking: "Classe", which can refer both to the class of children and social classes. It is distressing to hear the crystal-clear voice, crossed by a sense of defeat, of a child, stating with timid candor: "My dad goes to work in the machines...", while Luca Pastore's guitar explodes with impressive violence, ignited, more by the bitterness than by anger, and the unexplainable torment of doubt. And the final feeling is of an irrepressible and inevitable shock.

But it certainly doesn't end here: the dissonant and disillusioned noise of "In Un Istante", a brief outburst armed with iron and stabbing claws, mixes with its completion, the sarcastic "Felici E Contenti", a hardcore punk bullet that sinks, with a booming crash, into an immense ocean of bitter tears, of regret, as eyes open for the first time and behold the truth with amazement ("How many figures crowding the street / The signs and words watching us / Like flies in honey, we drown / Happy and contented, we eat and remain seated / In front of our emotions / That have stolen our breath / Telling us once again / That it was just a mistake / That everything has changed").

And then comes the anger. Burning, scorching, permanent.

It's not understood why (DJ) Francesco, with his hook that doesn't fall anymore and his gossip-filled romps, is at the top of the charts: while they, the Fluxus, who denounce the undeniable dominance of the powerful, have been on stand-by for almost six years (last album, the self-titled "Fluxus" from 2002) without anyone lending them an ear, a listen, a minute of time.

Are we really sure this is the Italy we want?