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Esteemed Dr. Sigmund Debaser
I write to you about a problem that has been bothering me for a while but has recently worsened to the point of necessitating the daily washing of my pubic hair. I'm a bit embarrassed to talk about it with you because, given my large stature, expressing my feelings is rather complex, especially when we're talking about a teenage obsession born from excessive fascination with what I would call a rock icon, an existential fetish as well as a piece of divine beauty.
When, a few days ago, I stumbled upon the marvelous site of Lacuna Coil (of whom I'm also a proud owner of all the albums in mp3 format downloaded from Vuze), I did it not out of a desire for a champion's breakfast nor because I was looking for winds, strings, and banjos randomly placed in a grind album; I did it solely because Cristina Scabbia (whom in my wettest dreams is called Cristina Sbobba) really makes a thong explode with a white liquid that I won't even describe. So... I wanted to confess that I like her. A lot. It had been too long, too, too long, let's say since Belen's little butterfly at Sanremo, that I haven't been this hard for a girl. I'm really starting to lose it. My relentless pursuit on the internet for new photos of her in pinstripe leggings borders on the most pathological fetishism, I admit. Imagine that I reached the point (but don't tell anyone, please) of changing "coil" to "coit" with a Uniposca on vinyl covers in downtown stores.
But GET to the point. I've discovered that our fantastic apocalyptic metal-gothic-pop-rockers, after the disputes with the guy on second vocals who demanded and got double the daily crunchy snacks plus an extra soapy bath a month, have given us their sixth sonic jewel. Finally, dammit! Because the burned CD of "Shallow Life" was starting to skip even on the home stereo and was irremediably yellowed from the liters of hops it has endured over the years! You see, doctor, I want to be honest with you. What worries me and, even more, saddens me is the fact that, several weeks after its release, none of the reviewers in your esteemed roster have taken the grace to talk about it.
I've always wondered why, here in the Beautiful Country, nobody has ever given a damn about Lacuna Coil. I just can't fathom the cruel popular insensitivity that forced Cristina and her pretty face to emigrate overseas, just to perform more worthily and satisfyingly behind the microphone stand (and not just the microphone) while here we were left with dirty and adoring riffraff of Beelzebub like the Necrodeath and the Sadist or those chronically depressed ones like Novembre's gang, noise-makers like Ephel Duath and (even worse) the Zu, not to mention the whole boastful progressive seventies' crowd who had to forcefully add ten more minutes to each piece otherwise they couldn't reach orgasm with their wives on a Friday night after a dinner of polenta and cod.
But damn! As if we were now forgetting about the (yet another) demonstration of magnificent progressive destiny and musical beauty of this "Dark Adrenaline," the independent and nonconformist soul of "Trip the Darkness" and "Kill the Light," songs without even a scrap of promotion or radio play; or the contagious lyrics, filled with effective terms (lies-dark-shame-light-hate primarily, in addition to an enviable series of can'ts and don'ts that even Linea 77's "Numb" couldn't match) perfect for tweeting at the gym while doing pilates; of Don Gilmore in the control room and the bitterness against the strong powers of various refrains ("Hold me/Teach me/Tell me what to do/But I'm not looking for a guide"-"I can't deny/Don't ask me why/I feel the pressure everywhere/It starts inside/It rocks in pain/It knocks me down/Am I insane?"). As if we were forgetting, above all, about the angelic throat of Cri, her stage presence, and the sensuality unleashed live (stuff that makes even a polished Anneke seem like Loredana Bertè dressed as a clown selling fish in the districts of Pozzuoli), her pinstripe shorts in favor of the derriere (Amy Lee, you're a chubby, retire!) or her 360-degree musical knowledge that led her to write articles for those wigs at Revolver when she could have easily become at least editor-in-chief of Ondarock here with us. And what about the astounding cover "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M.? Breath-taking.
So, doctor, do you realize? Does it seem right to you that this beauty, ahem... brain drain all Italian, has affected her too? Don't you think Cristina is now mature enough to return to her homeland, to take the place she deserves next to sacred monsters like Flavia Vento and Francesca Cipriani? And above all, why does the saying "Nemo profeta in patria" always hold true when I had a 4 in Latin and never understood what the hell it meant?
No because, immersed among the devotees of the metal universe, I grew up with three cardinal dogmas:
1) Going to brutal death concerts and exclaiming "But where's the hottie?"
2) Always mistrust the posers
3) To best use the esophagus for burping very loudly
and now these certainties are gradually thinning out like Marco Coti Pelati's hair after years of wild braiding.
Help me understand, doctor, because otherwise I'll make a mess!
Clinically yours
Decline
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