High On Fire
The Art Of Self Defense

THE REVIEW

Do you have a favorite album? The album that excites you a lot, makes your heart race, and gives you goosebumps, you don't even know why but you have a hunch, which is always better not to know because you risk a warning, Paparesta doesn't joke, then you skip the turn, and my girlfriend never knows by whom to get hit. Think about it, don't just throw out misplaced names. Okay, the melody, okay, the sought after, okay, that you get emotional with Sigur Ròs, okay, that you find yourself pondering the void with a jerk face when listening to Mogwai. Pedro The Lion is touching, but it's always better to touch your testicles when listening to them. Is your favorite album theirs? Make your heart their album, something like ‘from Peschiera with fury,' Ponta plays the trumpet, and I pose as a promoter.

We all know the sensations, albums that get under your skin for various reasons. I cite an album like "Feathers" by Dead Meadow, that one touched me, but the reason I then went to rediscover it was because when I listened to it, I kept getting showered with affection from the woman. Then everything connects, and the album in question loses intrinsic value to gain emotional value. Sure, a great album it is and remains, psychedelia after the '90s is the greatest wave of freshness, worthy of fig-flavored Mentos. Someone over there I hear yelling "Suuubsonicaaaaa." Well, the soundtrack of alternative tineggeri waves at the end and start of the millennium just like Afterhours. "What do you say"? "Afterhours, yes Afterhours." Let's talk about Perturbazione, who sing "Se mi Scrivi," and you feel like sending random text messages to some girls because it brings to mind couches and evenings in front of the TV, hot chocolates with cream, and breast groping like it's raining. These are weaknesses of you men, but also women, in due proportions. Even Marlene Kuntz marked someone, now they mark the days remaining to their artistic suicide (Godano, what did they do to you?). And then sing all together "Pelle" by the Lamb, shoot "Incantevole" by that junkie Boosta, one of the worst addicts, marked by vice and keeping it thanks to the weak hearts of tinegger. That he also writes crappy books is another story. Maybe I was forgetting the Brit-Indie-Post-Pop-Rock-Moan-Baobab wave, from Chris Martin's cannoli in the throat to Michael Stipe's giant head, where everything is emotional, sometimes simple and a bit trivial. Everyone soaking listening to Cat Power singing among the trees, Beth Orton duetting with Rowlands and Simons. Beautiful emotions, but easy. Find the time and dig. Emotions like these can be found by anyone, Satan didn't choose this way, not everyone can serve in the difficult emotion branch.

This album makes you tremble for what it manages to NOT be. Too heavy if you're not used to it, Matt Pike invented the NON-STONER-METAL-DOOM, the uncategorizable group really. A genius that hasn't exploded precisely because the product itself is too much. Rightly so, a mad scientist who invents a deadly virus doesn't deserve adoration, but I don't care, I keep it all for myself (and a few others). What is "Baghdad"? IT IS NOT. What explodes 5 minutes into "10000 years"? What does "Fireface" emit? Poorly produced love, almost unlistenable, hence misunderstood. This album is love, a difficult relationship, of slaps and punches, as if Mirko Filipovic married Naomi Campbell. High On Fire were born and died with this album, unable to retrace such a path with the two (excellent) subsequent titles. On par with the historic Sleep, Matt's group of origin (even if incomparable), beyond definitions. Matt Pike knows what he's doing, from Carpenedo to Castrette, nipple wheel bless you all.