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Rating: Few expected that in A.D. 2004 the nation of Cowboys, rodeos, and glittering lights in the desert would fall for it again. Yet, the timecard is punched once more on the east coast, and the expressive breaded codfish of Fahrenheit 9/11's opening credits returns to the Ardennes with its delirious peace mission. Many hoped for it, others less so.
If its biggest detractors merely shrugged and confirmed their Manzonian-memory thoughts, its supporters organized true boisterous and nostalgic Raves of a thousand and one nights. At that time, the white whale didn't even consider the possibility that people were having sex in hotel rooms, despite moon trips and easy Natural Blues.
But as good Carlo Lucarelli would say, this will come in handy later. Let's take a step back a few years. It's the fabulous '90s, and in clubs around the world, easy-going DJs are thriving, driven by big singles passed from hand to hand. In the Nigga-Nigga ghetto, Spike Lee enjoys making films with real (future) Basketball stars. Meanwhile, 5 big guys compose the soundtrack. The movie will be titled "He Got Game", and it will be the crème of basketball films.
5 big guys with already 10 years of career under their belts, ups and downs that not even Petacchi experienced. These were the years of (partial) revenge, furious and political lyrics, uncompromising musical revolutions. Then the fabulous world of the sublime and easy open legs always surrounds the thought of every human being. PCP, Angel Dust, peace pills, and silence until 2004.
The meeting between the electronics Guru and Flavor Flav is not entirely random. . On the other side of the world, meanwhile, while looking for a man with a mustache, innocent people die burned every day. These are the times of cheap electronics. Cocoricò was experiencing its expansion, and various Emanuel and Lou Belluci settled for a few pieces of bread for dinner.
Then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, GREAT SCOTT!... comes the collaboration between Moby and the Public Enemy, which fits like Nutella on pasta (at least on paper). It's the anthem of the power flower, the "Make love Fuck War", it's a hypnotic, insistent, wicked groove that gets under your skin. It's the cry for a new (premonitory) change that, unfortunately (or fortunately), will not happen that year. It's a record that plays in particular clubs, a record that will be forgotten too fast by shovelfuls and shovelfuls of mediocrity.
Angry manifesto of the American ghetto, this "Make love, Fuck War" is a piece to hold tight like a talisman in the night of desires. Less politically correct than that "Yes we Can" sung by various Will.i.Am and Scarlett Johansson, this hypnotic journey ends after 3 minutes and 27, leaving a void (or hope) for the future.
Meanwhile, cheap electronics remain, Big Beat is shelved, The white whale is in the grip of compulsive fits towards dead and lifeless dance of Dirk Diggler. But a young, handsome, tanned man is in government. Because there is a saying in Tennessee, "Fool me once, shame on you. You fooled me and it won't happen again"
Yippie-ka-Yeah!
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