Juliana Hatfield
How To Walk Away

By now Christmas is no longer the occasion to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but it has become the time of year when it is mandatory to exchange gifts amidst everyone's happiness, especially that of shopkeepers. Personally, I try (not out of stinginess, mind you) to get away from this consumerist frenzy, moving the gift issue to when I truly feel like giving them.

However, there are certain situations, like that of friends who have emigrated to the mists of the North and return home at Christmas to eat rococò and struffoli with their families. These people, if the relationship is still good, never return to greet you empty-handed. It's the case with Monica, who now works in the legal department of a large bank and every time she comes back at Christmas, knowing my passion, she always gives me a new CD... which regularly ends up collecting dust on the shelf at home. Not that they are bad, heaven forbid, but it's difficult, without frequent encounters, to catch a person's musical taste, which is always in constant evolution or, as the five madmen from Akron would put it, devolution. For example, a few years ago, it was the disc collaborated between the great JJ Cale and the now boring Clapton, to which I must have devoted a couple of listens before agreeing that it was better to invest the money spent in pizza and beer.

So this year, she showed up with the usual wrapping paper that you can tell from a mile away is a CD. In reality, from my package, it was also evident it was a book, and she was the first to unwrap it arching her mouth into the classic oooh of wonder to discover it was from the great Gianfranco Marziano, whose dogma "why travel 1000 km when you can fail comfortably at home?" left her a bit perplexed.

And mine? I unwrap it and on the cover there's an anorexic walking against a blue sky background: "How to Walk Away" by Juliana Hatfield.

"Aspe' - I say caught in the act - isn't this Ggggiuliana Hettfìld the one from Black Babies?"

Anyway, I take the disc home and decide to listen to it during an operation that requires great calm and patience: mounting a new XTR derailleur onto the full-suspension bike that I will use for the toughest marathon races, like the Dolomiti Superbike in Bolzano, the Salzkarmeggut Trophy in Austria, and, if San Gennaro keeps me in shape until October, the Roc d'Azur in France.

Now assembling a new derailleur, which is the mechanism that allows a bicycle chain to shift over the three rings that make up the chainset, is one of the most troublesome tasks for a DIY mechanic. Especially not advisable during the Christmas period because of the risk of calling some saint down from Paradise. For this, you need a musical background that doesn't have to be the most beautiful record of the year, otherwise, I would have put on those two possessed Left Lane Cruiser, but a record that gives you calmness and, at the same time, pleasure. Decided: I'll try Hatfield.

As I align the derailleur cage with the rings, adjusting its height on the seat tube, the first track starts, and I exclaim: "...damn Suzanne Vega!" The subdued ballad style is there, with pleasant solo guitar openings. "The Fact Remains" passes with the chorus remaining in your head, and the derailleur is aligned.

The most difficult phase is the fine adjustment of the High and Low screws that limit the cage's movement, and still, the languorous "Shining on" helps me stay calm and not swear, even though it's a very cheesy song. I haven't told Juliana to go to hell yet, but she is starting to get on my nerves—not yet heavily though. Fortunately, it starts to rock with a great piece that makes you tap your foot to the ground while the Low screw won't let the chain drop to the 22-tooth chainring. When I succeed, I'm still singing "...this lonely loooove uh uh uh" like Richard Butler doing the background vocals. With "My baby" she definitively wins me over because the alignment with the middle ring also works, so I forgive her for some excessive mannerisms for my ears.

There's nothing to do about it, the livelier tracks work like "Just Lust" and REM-style ballads like "Now I'm Gone." I trigger the Rapid Fire controls on the handlebars, and everything seems in place; this time, the saints in Paradise were not disturbed while setting up the nativity scene. Just in time because I find the tear-jerking stretch of "Remember November" unbearable even though it started with a nice piano. A piece for a lighter at a crowded concert, yes, but to set the stage on fire! The rest of the album is better left unmentioned because my work is finished, and I'd never listen to the last four tracks again.

All in all, a very nice catchy album, perfect for dusting off and then listening to while engaged in tedious half-hour tasks, like adjusting a derailleur, cleaning a gun, or preparing fondue. Or surfing on DeBaser.

Come on... I was joking! About it being a great album, of course...