KILROY!
Introducing: Kilroy

Thursday the 14th, 2:42 a.m., can’t sleep.

Let’s try jotting down a few lines, who knows…

The one of the two who’s known me for ages had already figured out I was about to answer in my usual caustic and biting yet objective way.

The other hadn’t, and right away took it badly, then he understood… maybe.

With the two “colleagues” pushing seventy and retiring soon, we were talking, standing by the coffee machine, about women, football, but mostly about age and all that comes with it.

I’d already started off with what, for them, were fairly traumatic reflections.

The naïve one pipes up with a “I feel in great shape, I’ve started going to the gym” and other self-motivational crap. Useless and pathetic discussions just to avoid admitting reality, namely getting old.

Let’s be clear: for me, from forty upwards you’re already old; I might give a special bonus up to forty-five, but only as a real exception.

My speech was, of course, final.

“Don’t get lost in pointless analyses: you’re old wrecks. I am too, let alone you guys. But for you it’s much simpler, since it’s just normal time passing. Nothing has changed in substance: you never amounted to shit and now you still don’t, just older; in a certain sense, if you think about it, it’s even better… there’s an excuse, or a supposed one. For me it’s a real tragedy: I was someone and now I’m not anymore, and not just because of my age. For me, it really is a tragedy.”

The other “colleague” burst out laughing… “you had it coming,” he said to the “fit decrepit one.”

I know, it’s got nothing to do with it… that’s why I keep going.

This vital and necessary drive and desire to “live” goes hand in hand with the phobia of being remembered.

Wretched foolishness. No one will be remembered and, anyway, never as they would want. And then being remembered… who the hell cares. There are people who lived little and lived badly but are mentioned in history books. Gee, lucky them!

This is sort of on topic…

My last obsession was writing something about DeB, but then the right occasion came along at just the right time, at least in this nighttime delirium.

Among all the garage rabble and similar stuff I listen or re-listen to, many would deserve a - useless yet noble - mention on Deb.

But my urge has rewarded and will only reward very few.

The CD starts - I always only read about the band later, so I don’t get misled - and it’s a jolt of wellbeing.

Very odd for me; sensations like these almost never last more than an hour, except for some epic nights back in the day… which often ended at the ER.

Well, the serious reviewers must be thinking, finally he’ll talk to us about the album.

But like hell I’m going to talk about the album, you can listen to it yourselves if you feel like it.

You don’t need to talk about the work itself, you just need to believe you can get there after some weird and even misleading hints. Sort of a game, come on.

Anyway, something should be said. These “Kilroy!” are Swedish and the album came out in 2005. I immediately checked to see if they had more, only to find out this is the first and last one.

Garage and Sweden are a combination that never fails, even when they do crap, shit doesn’t stink and the turd stays whole and perfect.

Twelve pearls that really bring you back to that magic five-year spell. The sixties, that is—do I really need to explain everything!

A garage beat of great class, tightly embraced by Soul and Mod.

Nomads, Prisoners, Creeps and that crowd, to avoid listing thousands. “Born Losers”, in short… but beat, very beat…

But there’s also an affinity with Australian power or college rock.

Total wellbeing, sure for a brief while, but to be enjoyed intensely.

It’s a marvel, even for old wrecks, when almost all you have left is your memories…

And these “Kilroy!” too, of course, are lost in absolute oblivion, as is normal and right. But carved into Deb, a huge honor. Too bad they’ll never know, or maybe… who knows.

A hug to all of you, you foul-smelling wrecks and nothing else.

And throw away those disgusting crappy slippers.

Thursday, 3:21 a.m., can’t sleep, but I’m laughing by myself and it’s wonderful…