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Rating: An experience with mustaches.
PART 1-Man is a cerebral monkey destined to disappear.
I still remember, with the raw innocence of my seven years, the tender and fragrant apple pie that my grandmother used to make on Saturday afternoons. It was always there on the table, waiting deliciously, perhaps after losing a little game with the older kids, with my knees scraped on the asphalt of the old elementary school and the ball shot so high that, often, to our little eyes, it seemed to almost want to hit the sun. Slightly worn snapshots, but settled in the memory of decades like the foamy lime between the bricks of a house under construction. And now, in the friendly walls that embrace the void of my mental abode, here are the clear, colored images of the Spanish Mundial, Italy as champion: Bruno Mara-Zico on the wing crossing, Tardelli’s orgasmic scream, the mustached eighteen-year-old Zio Bergomi. Mustaches that fueled my naive fantasy of adventurous men, without stains to wash in the machine with Amendola’s drum, nor hesitations in manfully holding the beautiful one to seduce and protect against his hairy chest. Mustached men who could have dominated the world, but gave it up because they were busy playing "Magnum P.I."; like Tom Selleck, who indeed gave up "Raiders of the Lost Ark" (try reminding him of that if you have the guts). Or James Arness, wise protagonist of the western series "How the West Was Won," who seemed to move expressively and anciently like the oak forests around him. And I do not forget the iconographic, subtly bisexual Kit Carson, the amiable and loyal squire of Tex: but as a child the more I looked at him drawn in the legendary Galep’s albums, the less I understood why not simply call him Buffalo Bill..
PART 2-One day a guy with big mustaches comes to me and says "Do you want to be one of us?"
In short, this digression with mustaches to properly introduce the fourteenth studio work of Nicola Caverna and his Bad Seeds, "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!". A preamble to the new sorties of Nick, Lazarus-resurrected from a five-year-old Ikea furniture era, ready to promptly reclaim rightful acclaim and artistic dignity, armed with authoritative charcoal mustache. Maybe dyed, okay, but Warren Ellis's thick beard takes care of discoloring the melodic plots of the eleven new Caveian parables, with touches of acid violet and slightly dissonant. A great production work, indeed (headed by the usual Nick Launay, mindful of the recent garage-style Grinderman experience). The Bad Seeds sound polished and sparkling, an enviable rock maturity certified by the years, and they engrave every detail with the formal rigor of a carpenter in his shop. With the sarcasm of the single "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!", foamy guitars like "Louie, Louie" by the Kingsmen and harsh noises in the background, the odyssey/trip of "Larry" begins, a Lazarus-Houdini tired of his eternal condition as a misunderstood zombie and anxious to return home, a few dozen meters buried in the world's hole. Jim Sclavunos's drums hop in the agile pop-rock of "Today's Lessons" and the sensation of solid electro/acoustic craft behind the curtain of tragedies, failures, and biblical resurrections of our protagonist begins to make its way even in the percussive and soulful boogie of "Moonland". A dense, confused, and desperate humanity narrated by Cave, the Anglo-Australian from Hove, Brighton. Characters on an endless pilgrimage towards the oasis of a utopian salvation from sin.
"Larry made his nest high up in the autumn branches.
Built from nothing but high hopes and thin air.
He collected up some baby blasted mothers who took their chances,
and for a while they lived quite happily up there.."
Dig Lazarus, don’t mind the sinister metallic noise filo-Neubauten and post Blixa, in the nightmare of "Night Of The Lotus Eaters". Keep digging to the earth’s entrails, mother crazed of us poor slaves without chains, united in the modern dance of the obsessive "We Call Upon The Author", self-invocation among Mick Harvey and Martyn Casey's guitar moans, the oscillating notes of a small organ, and sudden bursts from hip-hop/industrial hysteria. Keep digging the putrid soil Lazarus, bring to light the remains of distorted 80s rock 'n' roll (copyright Jesus And Mary Chain) of the convulsive "Albert Goes To West"; find peace in the acoustic and reverberated sunsets of the country-ballad "Hold On To Yourself", a shadowy minimalist Springsteen, and in the mournful singing of "Jesus Of The Moon", embellished by Ellis's ever-present lute. Life beyond life, the unease of a gesture always the same and tomorrow already obsolete, the grotesque fate of resurrecting in a place that doesn’t belong to you, and perhaps you preferred the beloved, old tomb: sleep Lazarus, return deep and rest. The sturdy "Midnight Man", with Thomas Wydler on percussion, has an electric crescendo and classic breath like a dusty blues/noise ride and anticipates the concluding "More News From Nowhere"; eight minutes between Bowie's "Station To Station", the brooding urgency of U2 from twenty years ago and the choral dylanian step. A farewell with trimmings, an atmospheric seal that metaphorically closes the beloved Ouija board of Nick and company in the trunk. With a salty grin of satisfaction, King Ink stamps another card as an honest rock employee and sends many greetings to Larry. Well done Nicola, now all that remains for you and your mustaches is to preside as a judge at the annual world beard and mustache championship in Brighton, south coast of the United Kingdom. You deserve it.
" Dig yourself..Lazarus, dig yourself ..
(I want you to dig ) Back in that hole.."
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