Mike Patton
Mondo Cane

Eleven slaps in the face, beautiful beautiful, resounding, thunderous. Eleven slaps to that clique that violates and kills music, intellect, culture.

These rooms have no more walls, they are rooms full of clouds, nostalgia, melancholy, joy.
How beautiful, what a pleasure.
No more walls or ceilings. No limits.
And a bunch of grammatical errors, like other slaps, many slaps to those poor obscured ones who can't distinguish errors from brushstrokes, those tiny tiny stains, those small lumps, like when you look at a painting up close. Break it, break it.
Skies and nights, because you feel the passion, because it tightens your stomach, because it grips your belly, it takes you from behind.
All those years gone by. Passed.
What a night this night, what fog, what blows, what kisses, what crushes. Buscaglione.
Mike approaches slowly and looks at us smiling and mustached. While we play listlessly with our old toys. He catches us there, guilty and bored, and without enthusiasm. And he says look.
Listen a little.
And those games come back to life. Little Pinocchios and bells, small radios and old squared pages all stained with markers and watercolors. Umbrellas and rocking chairs that rock and rock.
Feel the summer, the winter. Feel what spring, feel the autumn.
Feel Italy, mondo cane! Scockumentary.
Where did we lose ourselves? What have we lost?
Look how to play. How to carve the heather twigs, with a little knife among friends, under a distant and clear sky of an old and sultry August morning. We make soldiers and pipes and marbles. Sand castles and buckets. Blondes and brunettes.
Old games better than new.
When the strings start you could do anything, you could go crazy, you could indulge in splendid thoughts and caresses on the edge of the world.
Light a cigarette for heaven's sake, by now we are alone in the middle of the world. Which is what counts, it's what you feel.

Few but good, there's Asso on guitars. Vasini on the theremin and his hair. Munari skips, Paci trumpets.
The long vacation. Long long vacation, that you no longer want to return. With that Z of Zorro, not indifferent.
Naples and its sea, the distant things, dead and forgotten, no nightmare.
A black scream. Which only Patton could bring out, another buried game, inside a trunk. But punk was already all there.

Ahahahahah. Oh God, you make me laugh. Thank you Mike, thank you from the heart. Tenco, Di Bari, Morricone.
Thank you for all of this, for this concentration of beauty, of awakening, of dusting off.
Eleven slaps to the clique. But not the usual one as you think. Eleven slaps to the indieboys, the radical chic, the small conforming masses, who don't believe they are masses because they are small.
Mike with passion and fury, like a popular quote, a pair of red shoes. What pride, damn it, what pride, what spirit, what passion. Like Tarantino but better. Like the real Italy. When will we wake up? When will we start singing again? For now, it's fog, mixed with complexes, with all those faded games, gathering dust and crying.

Come here Mike, we'll offer you a drink. Because probably yesterday that clique was us. And we didn't even know what we had missed.