Gandhi's Gunn
The Longer The Beard The Harder The Sound

So be it...to hell with the couple's life, Christ of a God! A former life mentor of mine probably had a point ("...and always remember, women are a bit like grilled meat: when it bleeds, it's time to flip it...") who later graduated brilliantly from Harvard and is now the Grand Chamberlain of Burlesque in Arcore.

In the throes of unstoppable fits of acute anti-emancipation and with the boldness that characterizes Super Mario Monti at every meeting with the Chancellor, my Hundred Days post-Mexican Butcher Shop were first spent as a great sinner. Then, more sensibly, I transformed into a wandering charitable pilgrim with a half-empty satchel on my back and some miserable bits of dry bread inside the black Lemmy-style smock, in search of a hermitage where I could kneel and pray to Father Mustaine (the freckled God with tendonitis), without even having the "Live at Jerusalem" by OM with me. Idiocy, but after all, it was what I truly needed (although even a hundred thousand euros wouldn't hurt, to be clear...)

By the end of the meditative journey, what emerged was a most valuable imperative decalogue (a haughty simulacrum of lustful exercise) hand-carved on coasters stolen from the pub that I will henceforth observe pedantically much like a fifteen-year-old who has been playing guitar for three months regards the invaluable pentatonic doctrines of Herman Li:

1. Change underwear at every solstice or at most every full moon

2. In the car, go from point A to B without any intermediate stop

3. Drinking alcohol is not subject to space and time restrictions

4. Even for just five seconds, every female can be yours

5. No vegetables. Never and under no condition

6. Flat benches, Ab Rocket, Ab Circle Pro, and various other crap all put on sale on eBay (by the way, if anyone is interested, I'll see you in private)

7. You shouldn't hear about someone else's day at work when you already couldn't care less about how yours went

8. Microwave = haute cuisine à la Gualtiero Marchesi

9. The darned, freaking football (at the next World Cup, I'll even watch Burkina Faso vs. Sri Lanka), the mites lying on the couch with a Ceres in hand, the silly films of Bud Spencer

10. Listen to albums like the second by the Genoese Gandhi's Gunn "The Longer the Beard the Harder the Sound" (subtitle: Gilette, Wilkinson et similia go soundly screw yourselves) at ear-splitting volumes and feel an odiferous scent like of the Seventies, of Kyuss, of C.O.C. of the heavier times and maybe even of Acid King and Clutch (and now don't make me add the word 'grunge' -Soundgarden in primis- because then the diarrhea starts on loop) for which opening the window or turning the Ururu Sarara full blast doesn't help at all. Nor does preparing a couple of drafts with the tuft.

8 tracks of amusing heavy rock, of energetic contagion, of lysergic bursts that even the Milf on the third floor wouldn't be able to offer. In thirty minutes there's everything, even more so than in the already commendable debut "Thirtyeahs" (2010): dusty metallic riffs ("Haywire", "Under Siege"), solos reminiscent of Josh Homme, intense and changeable expansions in a somewhat post-rock psychedelic key ("Flood") and somewhat doom ("Hypotesis") and the great melodic contribution to the voice of Giacomo Boeddu, a sort of Eddie Vedder with firecrackers up his rear. Basically, an album that says not a damn new thing even under scrutiny, felt and re-felt countless times but ultra-scented-that-makes-the-ground-hole like few have done in recent years. And (above all) that has become my morning energy boost for two months.

I've decided: forget peaceful resistance, forget cheeks smooth as a baby's bottom. It's time to get a 44 Magnum, grow a beard like Billy Gibbons, and go see Gandhi's Gunn live as soon as possible. Provided first that no greengrocer reads this review and comes to my house to settle the score...