Hüsker Dü
Zen Arcade

THE REVIEW

It was an attic, dusty but not too much, with a few windows, the wood of the frames cracked, a couple of chairs so uncomfortable they were best forgotten. My old group of friends and I had later opted for the amplifier, one for each. We would sit on them, pretend to have a bit of wheat in our mouths, and sing, strumming an old acoustic guitar. The drummer had a stool so laughable, it suited him perfectly. Those were fantastic times, in a way. The famous '90s. Having just exited the previous decade with that No Future button still in our hearts, old Banshees records, a poster of Siouxsie, we loved her, that woman. Oh, how we loved her. All of us. No exceptions. When we gathered in our beautiful den, anyone who dared to even criticize Juju got beaten. Badly... joking a bit too much, I even sprained my wrist on that so dear Vox of mine...

In the evening, when the neighborhood was immersed in its monotonous yawn that seemed to us nonsensical and against life itself, so superficial it was, I would open the wardrobe, also cracked, and take out an LP... randomly, or at least I thought my hand picked randomly. Patti Smith with her "Horses", a photo of Strummer, the Doors, a bit of Germany, and a precious copy of "A Love Supreme", from my father, which once I dared to listen to without his permission, slightly ruining the edges of the cover... I would never touch it again, for anything in the world.

I still remember the first time I listened to Hüsker Dü, this time I was alone at my house, gazing lovingly at those stacks of cars and feeling with my heart the aroma of vinyl, I put on the needle, and I was overwhelmed. By everything: anger, desolation, violence, the encyclopedia of Punk, whatever you want. Every single day, I found myself humming Never Talking To You Again... and going into raptures over the 13th Floor's hardcore version of Reoccuring Dreams, intensified... and the more I thought about it, the more I told myself: we are all Iggy's illegitimate children, damn it. It wasn't just music, it was life. It wasn't just a style. It was the very essence of our breath.

The fact is that the evenings when we listened to "Zen Arcade" isolating ourselves from the world, and naturally drinking beer, were what they were: magical. And I don't think there's anything else to explain, no grades to give, no cheap notions because only fools believe they can define anything in words. Often, the crackling of a record player says it all without the help of anything or anyone, except our heart. And our hands, of course. Especially the right one*


*preferably only in youthful ages, then as adults it becomes a bit sad. Or not?