Meat Puppets
Forbidden Places

- small page thrown together with four hands and four feet, the marga and siltoid zalutano

The guys from Phoenix, Arizona, have always been ahead of their time. Since their remote beginnings in the early eighties, they've been hailed by critics as one of the fundamental pillars for the birth of all that indie rock which would gain followers everywhere; in other words, absolute pioneers: hardcore, blues, and country fused together into a strange and compelling auditory melting pot of tradition and innovation; they are the Kirkwood brothers, Cris and Curt (what names!!), the authors of this atypical and sui generis musical adventure, aided by the solid and propulsive drumming of the faithful Derrick Bostrom;

1991, after a series of always honest albums—engaging and concise in their timing to not betray their sonic philosophy—they come forward once again ahead of everyone, releasing Forbidden Places in July, just weeks before the grunge explosion in Seattle and its surroundings, amidst certain albums titled Ten, Nevermind, and Badmotorfinger: I believe there's no need to add the names of the bands involved in these epoch-making projects; the meat puppets sign with a major label, stop self-producing, and seek public and sales approval for once, thus liberalizing their hard-to-classify sound; the direction they impose on themselves leans towards an effective pop grunge (to use an abysmal term) that doesn't deny their intoxicating, dazed and "total" roots; in general, the stylistic evolution that accompanies them throughout their career is here at the plateau of the previously adorable Monsters, but perhaps it lacks some odd melody flattened by the approach; it might feel immediately, like a fart in the shower, indeed it quickly passes among the perennial intertwining of that bass-guitar union on steep scale curves of colored notes; certainly not lacking genius among the seemingly awkward riffs, the choruses are straightforward and open, distortions run when they feel like it, and the now dated sound might give this hidden place an added charm; the end of all-pastel and outline records, now chronologically adrift compared to well-known masterpieces, but this style sounds seventies more than a déjà-vu, and you can feel the boogie, the punk, or the ever-present disoriented country; the tracks are there (uh!) and it is one of those rare record cases where I start from the last track when listening to the work, namely the instrumental Six Gallon Pie, where they ignite the turbo, shift into high gear, and speed through the deserts of their homeland at astronomical speed; a bizarre country-folk-punk'n'roll ride of staggering effectiveness; starting from the beginning, the equally electrifying initial Sam has the same additional characteristics of a singing so rapid and convulsive that one can't even follow the text (try it...WOW...); and then Another Moon slides toward the moon, Open Wide crosses punk and ZZ Top and Forbidden Places turns the eighties into grunge.

Maybetheyhadaridiculousstatementtomakeaboutsomethingtheyhadn'texperienced.PossiblySamhadadifferentopinionthatnobody'deverconsideredimportant.AnddamnitifNormanandBettywerelisteningsomebodywouldhavebecomeaphenomenalHowlinglightningtamperingwiththeelectricalevidenceshowntoberelevant.Possiblywiththeexceptionofivoryeveryoneelsehadabandonedtheobvious.Chippingawayaterroneousgarbagewhichdefinitelyisasexcitingaspudding.Deliciouslyspoonedfromthelapoftheludicrousintothemouthsofthequestionlessidiots.Lickingtheirlipsastheireyeballsarerollingandflappingtheirtonguesasthey'relosingtheirmarbles.

In some ways, we're all meat puppets and the Kirkwood's movable heads make every feeling seem deep and bizarre at the same time; it's like that, here affection wins, always beautiful to jump from jovial moods to nostalgic texts, when they don't save you from the storm but make you dance in the rain; often pieces listened to here have been used to exorcize tunes that otherwise could be hummed all day; simply in their own way, just like the best bands, after all.

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