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Rating: Distant echoes, the calm of the Aegean, street dances in the Balkans.
Sudden storms on the white Greek islands, Guernica bombed.
Flashes, heart-wrenching screams, shipwrecks, scratches, bruises, wailing, ghosts, haunted houses, a chilling wind.
The calm.
A sobbing tango, a broken flamenco, a desperate fado, an anarchic song in Italian sung as if it were in French.
Abysmal loneliness.
People you want to be quiet, please?
Desperation
Anxiety, panic attacks, epilepsy, tears, excruciating pain.
The cause, the effect, the cure.
Noise.
The definitive defeat, rock bottom.
The ascent.
Matt Elliott is a broken man who sings with closed eyes.
Matt Elliott is a thousand Matt Elliotts in delay.
Matt Elliott is a virtuoso guitar expertly tamed, the scraping cymbals of a drum, a double bass, yet another guitar.
Matt Elliott is the hoarse song of the Siren. He enchants you, rips your heart out, tears your guts apart.
Matt Elliott is a kind man who smiles at you at the end of a too short concert that nonetheless overwhelms you.
Go see him, perhaps in a dark and evocative place with just a handful of people, like the Bastione Alicorno. Perhaps in a place with good acoustics where no one forces him to close after midnight, unlike the Bastione Alicorno.
But go see him.
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