•
Rating: "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man" Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)
Is it possible in a review to separate the character from his music? Perhaps it is an act of misinformation, something for which maestro Lester Bangs would reprimand me and send me back to September. Never has it been easier than in this case to take advantage of attracting the curious by morbidly wallowing in the short but incredible and intense life of GG Allin, focusing especially on his performances on stage, mostly consisting of shoving the microphone into his backside, masturbating while assaulting the audience, and pelting them with his own excrement.
I believe no one has brought to such a stage of extremization the rite of rock ("...my body is the temple of rock n' roll and my flesh, my blood and my fluids are the property of the people), using themselves to transgress and at the same time provoke to the point of being not the enemy, but public animal number one.
Before making the Doctor Johnson’s phrase his own, GG Allin was a drummer who, with the label of the legendary David Peel switched to singing to record in 1980 a great snotty punk record. It's hard to believe that the long-haired guy happily wandering the streets of New York with a bright voice would become the same ogre with a hoarse growl who in later years would appear on stage completely naked except for a pair of boots, covered in tattoos that look like they were drawn by a child's uncertain hand, shaved bald except for the big mustache and Mangiafuoco-like goatee. The one who would become the freak to be presented as a circus phenomenon to the respectable society he tries to shock with his provocations and who, in subsequent years, would sing "I Kill Everything I Fuck" and "Legalize Murder" until, as he repeatedly promised, self-destructing in line with his character in the rite of overdose.
I, on the other hand, prefer to remember him in this splendid example of melodic punk as a young guy who, accompanied by the excellent Jabbers (in Italian ramblers and not the unlikely names like the later Scumfucs, Toilet Rockers, AIDS Brigade, Drug Whores, Murder Junkies), leads the assault on a rousing punk anthem like "Bored to Death"; sings in the style of the Who a chorus ("Don’t Talk to Me") that you'll find hard to get out of your head for the rest of the day; flirts with glam with the irresistible female choirs of three hookers in "Cheri Love Affair"; grasps the star-spangled hard rock of the New York Dolls with an ode to masochism like "Beat Beat Beat"; enjoys changing his voice from soprano to baritone in the clanking "I Need Adventure"; seamlessly blends MC5 and Iggy Pop in "One Man Army"; delights with the wonderful beatpunk gallop of "Automatic"; throws the incendiary bottle of hardcore flame in "Assface" (...sweet ass face that’s what you got...you can suck my dick).
A handful of songs lasting between a minute and a half and just over two minutes, with an excellent rhythm section and the blazing solos of lead guitarist Rob Basso. Eleven quickies that won’t leave you unsatisfied, wedged as they are between the lightness of melody and the roughness of punk. Songs that hint at a chart-topping talent backed by people like Dee Dee Ramone and Wayne Kramer yet turned into that beast loaded with self-hatred and disgust for himself and the entire humanity.
Who knows if he managed to avoid the pain of being a man.
Loading comments slowly
