Itchy-O
Burn The Navigator

The 32 piece satanic marching band mixing traditional instruments, electronics and lightening, hailing from none other than Colorado, tackles (and I would say defeats with a resounding 6-0, 6-1 win) one of the most insidious plagues that has afflicted humanity for years: the (damned) GPS that leads you to navigate and travel kilometer after kilometer on roads to nowhere between comfortable dirt paths and sudden precipices.

“Brucia Il Navigatore” is nothing more than a bold feast for the ears, an epiphany, perhaps even an orgy, a godsend for those who demand dangerously cacophonous and booming sounds from the Pentateuch (or perhaps it was the Pentagram).

An apotropaic pandemonium.

A convulsive Sabbath rite that our Neanderthal ancestors would have welcomed around the fire as an inscrutable sign of the presence of the Gods.

A triumph of trinkets apparently disordered but with its own senseless sense.

A rustic village festival where instead of the ancestral boiled sheep and rivers of Cannonau, attendees are given a blowpipe armed with Peyote and Krokodil arrows to merrily pierce each other.

Stylistically, we could define them as the great-grandchildren of the convulsive Crash Worship: I haven't quite understood if someone from them is actually involved or if it's a subliminal lineage of clear Catholic-communist leaning. One should ask that rascal Jello Biafra (may he always be praised) who produced and published them;

The utterly crazy reinterpretation of the fantastically “Wild Mountain” by the aforementioned Crashers foretells this to me.

The album formula is indeed a bit tight for these masked bisons; although well recorded-and-produced, it may sound a tad too polite (always compared to the version audible outside the studio) and “clean”.
Yet, it is still able to outshine, with its daringness and arrogance, 99.89898989 per thousand of the grouped bands across Planet Earth. Yes, I admit it: I have always been a diehard fan of Duran Duran.

The best way to understand what kind of audio-visual mess these cheerful rogues concoct would be to enjoy them live: but, heavens above, there will be at least about thirty of them—between those who play and others who do not do anything—who jostle and roll around as if they were stung by a swarm of Piaggio 125 hornets.

And then all those bizarre costumes & oversized instruments: it’s all a flourish of percussion, of unidentified instruments, of whistling keyboards, corrupt and incomprehensible voices, to be enjoyed at strictly prohibitive volumes.

In short: who’s going to cover their travel expenses? Sunny Denver does not happen to be just around the corner.

Given the upcoming Feast of the Blessed, Most Holy, Virgin Most Sorrowful in my DeParish, I will ask the resident Reverend if he will fork over the collected thaler with the offerings—during the Responsorial Psalm—and, instead of using it to go to a restaurant or for flamboyant fireworks, to opt for the advent of the Aristotelian Aicci-O’.

And as for the krokodil?
One can always make arrangements for that.

Come on.