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So, where are you going for Easter Monday? To the sea? To the mountains? Through hilly woods searching for Maya the Bee? Yes?!?! How boring! "Tiny little group of tender friends, little lunch at Aunt Rosetta's small and sophisticated farm holiday, and then hop around the carefree meadows like little Smurfs on vacation at the Madrenatura Hotel"... oh please!
Listen to Uncle ...caz..., holidays should be celebrated seriously. Find a nice hidden place with ample space, a valley or a little-visited beach, maybe an abandoned farmhouse; a generator; rented sound system; word of mouth among friends and acquaintances and organize a nice peace festival, 60s style (in every way!).
Just imagine, whip out all the Hippy records you have, psychedelic shirts, bottles of wine as far as the eye can see, 39 packs of Rizla+ giant size (each), and once on site, everyone goes to pick mushrooms and herbs, which are easily found in the countryside. Make some noise: dance and sing, exchange flower crowns, “hug” all the best representatives of the opposite sex, and ruin your nervous system for a couple of weeks. Late at night, when most of the group leaves, only the diehards remain, those who can't go home until the grass and mushrooms gathered in the countryside are gone.
That's when the donkey falls. A nice fire outside, you all sit in a circle and blast "New Day Rising" (Delerium Records '99) right into your eardrums.
Have you ever wondered what would have happened if Jim Morrison hadn’t wanted a bath that day, and had gone into the recording studio with Syd Barrett? I think they would have pulled something like this work out of the hat. It’s not the "usual" band with distorted guitars and obsessively trippy synthesizers, these guys gently take you into hyperspace, hold your hand, caress your hair, and let you onto their swing, pushing at a steady pace but without sudden accelerations, and you have a dopey grin like a child at the amusement park with a free-pass for all the rides; while the “On Trial” push, push, push…
Melodic and psychotropic riffs, sounds from hyperspace, soft drumming with stargate-like rolls, an alienating voice at a "Ramadan party in Mecca; accordions, electric and acoustic guitars, sitar, flutes and other things that my pagan ear can’t distinguish.
Lineup: Albert Hoffman on guitar, Lieutenant Spock on sampler, Tutankhamun on drums, and Jesus Christ as frontman, something that after 10 minutes of listening will have you turning to your friend "Paoletto aka tin pants," to pass him the swollen herb product, and you’ll mistake him for either Mullah Omar or Magician Zurlì, wand included (which also depends on the afternoon's harvest).
One foot in the period straddling the 60s and 70s and the other in the third millennium; a musical bridge connecting the two periods, and "On Trial" have placed their equipment at the center of this bridge, and from there they dig into your brain, but not with a doom-style drill, with a small and painless silver spoon with pure gold inlays, gently yet inexorably right to the core.
However, there's one flaw with all of this (party/record/harvest): when you return to the office on Tuesday, naked with only a fig leaf on the cool parts (or a robe with flowering magnolia decorations), hair balloon-style like Aretha Franklin/Valderrama, and greet your boss with "peace brother, may love be with you" in the vocal tone of Verdone in "Un Sacco Bello" while placing a daisy crown around his forehead, they might fire you; but they won’t be able to wipe that dopey smile off your face.
May your Easter Monday bring you wisdom; peace & love, friends from De-Basar, I love you all (no, I haven't yet gone to the countryside to do the harvest, it was just to close with a thematic line that seems so late-adolescent cult).
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