Loma Prieta
I.V.

Slowly flipping through, virtually, any photo portfolio of Brian Kanagaki you feel a sense of calm. A tranquility that can be seen everywhere, from the depth of a semi-abandoned city alleyway, to any forgotten corner among the ruins of a derelict house, up to the detail of the everyday, random. You are imbued with a rather expanded view of the world. An underlying unreality that peeks through due to a sensation of stasis. A harmony of colors, whether they are the alternation of black and white, or the immersion in delicate tones that characterize everything in an ethereal way. There, what Brian impresses on film you tuck away well in your imagination and set aside for a moment, just long enough to pick up from the desk the vinyl that on the cover reads "I.V.". Because not only is our subject a photographer by passion, but more importantly he is the guitarist and vocalist of a musical band that for a couple of years has been resounding in the dense Californian scene. He plays in Loma Prieta. And if the name doesn't mean anything to you, it's a good idea to do a nice reset of the alla Ghirri snapshots and immerse yourself in the musical nemesis of the extemporaneous visions of the photographic shots.

A name within tragedy. The clear reference is to the namesake earthquake of 1989 that caused countless deaths, injuries, and a huge amount of damage. We are in San Francisco and they are exactly from there, an area boiling with underground culture, fed by disparate influences and delivering to the world artists at an almost constant rate who keep the musical flame alive. Loma Prieta have been around for quite a few years, they are not new kids on the block when in 2012 they came out with this work. The fourth. The friendship of Brian and Val with Tre McCarthy leads them to debut for Deathwish and to seek alchemy in the control room there is that little guru of Jack Shirley, omnipresent in the Californian scene. The fog falls over Frisco and the Golden Gate doesn’t exactly look like that bridge featured on postcards to be sent to distant relatives and grandmothers, in fact, upon it emerges that shadow of the record for which it is sadly known. Am I not painting you an enticing portrait? I agree with you, but with Loma Prieta, you breathe an unhealthy air. Like a leaden sky ready to unleash its wrath, they don’t make you wait. The assault is annihilating.

After all, we’re talking about barely 25 minutes, what’s the big deal, you might say. Quick and painless. Well, not quite. Quite the opposite. The compositions contained in here are about as atrocious as what the screamo/emoviolence scene can produce at this time. The gusts spill chaotically into other domains, drawing from a hint of grind or the incessant noise buzz that completely saturates the environment, an irritation that gets inside you, unsettling you. This also happens because Loma Prieta starts with the accelerator floored and they don’t even think about reducing the scope of their sonic beatings in the slightest. Stunned and dazed you reach the “Trilogia IV - V - VI” remembering how the first three present four years earlier on “Last City” were devoted to broader solutions. More wrong thought could not have been made. The screams become even more agonizing, the hysterical fury is further compressed and the regurgitation becomes more violent. It’s a point of no return and the keyword becomes just one: “Untitled”. An interlude of a handful of seconds, that stops our ears from bleeding and ushers us into a new scenario that will slowly lead us to the second half of the album. Not that the atmospheres change dramatically. There will be no ballads or clean vocals galore, simply Loma Prieta draw from their pain more deliberately, orchestrating melodic escalations that were glimpsed at the outset and that have always belonged to the DNA of the group. You remain suffocated, the climax doesn’t ease, but the harmonious incursions provide balance to the individual drama represented by Prieta.

After being overwhelmed by a sort of shipwreck, there is only the comfort of a long-desired and suffered march that accompanies us out of Loma Prieta's world, and brings us back to the photos of Brian Kanagaki recounted at the outset, which become increasingly strident, yin and yang, one might say. The fiercest chapter of the Californians closes, without regrets, what was supposed to scratch, has indeed inflicted lethal blows. The river of rage has been dismantled and all that remains is to observe the peaceful photographs wondering if someday, in the future, those sensations might be glimpsed musically, given the diametrically opposed sound nuances. But for now, it’s fine like this.