Pornoriviste
Codice a sbarre

I write this review, even though I know I'm being repetitive, as a sort of nostalgic resurrection of the good old days of adolescence. Also filled with summers spent in a small and remote mountain village with a few but very loyal friends and days dedicated to breaking the boredom through infinitely nonsensical creativity. Often, in reality, we ended up drunkenly rolling in the fields and woods or in neural fogs with a pinch of tobacco, just at the end. But it was something special.

Among the musical accompaniments, always fundamental for us, was this prodigy band: the PornoRiviste. Namely those hidden, unbeknownst to him, in the shed of a friend's grandfather; a refuge for those disappointed by unrequited loves and an alcove for pioneers of puberty.

Let's be clear, we could with hindsight relegate the whole thing to just any melodic Italian punk rock band, even quite mediocre, and I don't know how punk they actually were. But without hindsight, the PornoRiviste were a pillar of an unforgettable season of my life.

The album in question is from 2001 and perhaps can be considered their peak, let me explain. The tracks are many and almost all "right." This is, in my humble opinion, their small masterpiece (big word), which sums up previous collections and reaches heights never touched again with later works. But, putting aside the sonic aspect on which I won't dwell because I don’t think there’s much to say, I’d like to pause for a moment on the lyrics.

"Codice a sbarre," the album's title, alludes to prison and the mass production of today's consumerism. Well, good idea, great start. In the wake of the "social," we have "La scatola dell’odio" which, guys, whether one likes it or not, is a little pearl (fool) made by pigs and given to pigs. The first four verses could be my epitaph as far as I'm concerned [What do you think at seven in the morning? / Are you standing well or hardly seeing your neighbor? / How do you stand in a climate of tension? / Excuse me a moment while I come down with the stick!]. Excuse who? You? He? Maybe he’s addressing the Almighty or using a dazzling yet nonexistent reverse Tobler-Mussafia. Nevertheless, I’m already in love with them. The rest of the song rants against multinationals, vivisection, the papacy, bogus politics, police, and it's all "reasonable," let’s say. It even reaches cannibal tourism, traffic jams on the highway and so on but especially to kicking [Emilio Fede in the ass]. I rejoice. In short, it is an irreverent pamphlet concluding with [I hate you all as you hate us / what do you think?] Who thinks what? You, me? Ah, they were talking directly to me; I didn't get it, now it also explains the "excuse me." No, it doesn't, oh well.

"Tempi cupi" deals with the gray context at the turn of the millennium. Amid the Berlusconism that was [they have won me / have used / posters and televisions] and the few prospects for young people, for movements of all kinds and for everything to come. It evokes bygone times, '68 and '77, juxtaposing them with the present and talking about time that doesn't look anyone in the face; recalling the disaster of the immobilism of us all [I am the leader / of a crowd / lifeless without emotions]. And as a side dish offers futile social struggles [those who are well don’t help / those who are unwell get angry and spit], fully aware that deep down [justice is in the songs]. Sacred music, help us.

Then there is a focus on the church, the catholic and apostolic one, with "M.I.B": the Child-Screwing Machine, which starts at baptism, accelerates with communion, oratory, and catechism, skids in marriage, and crashes at the funeral. They mean it more as a "lethal device," but the vehicle metaphor fits me like a glove, suits me perfectly.

"Questo liquido" is a whole metaphor about the overflow of the Olona, from which the song "OVPRS" which means Olona Valley Punk Rock Show of "Fino alla fine," which gets angry and sweeps away factories and wicked men. Ruthless people with nature and the environment now punished by the divine Olona. [It’s your valley / it's your area / now chase them away]. Die exploiters, die all. This polluted liquid, created by you, will now be your grave. Take that.

Then there's the more intimate section with "Seduto su una luce," "Medicina," "Coma da favole," "Cinismo," "Il gioco," and I could go on and on and on. In short, a worldview based on conflict is outlined [what the heck do you have / with those like me / sitting on a light / light years from you]; on a desire to escape reality [that usual why / that says “I want to stay without a reason / and believe / in the usual why / in a fairy tale coma], which often offers nothing good to young people [nothing good / nothing beautiful / nothing gets me out of this grave] and other similar invectives. In practice, many punk stereotypes are splattered in a more or less confused and shouted manner not without original ideas and spot-on words amid absolutely incomprehensible and chaotic outbursts. But certainly with the feeling of listening to someone who genuinely believes it and wants to shout it, sincerely. And that's enough for me, and it’s sacred.

For most people, the Porno Riviste are cataloged as an absolutely irrelevant band in the Italian music scene, and how can you blame them! But I break a lance in their favor, conditioned by the above-expressed feelings and I can do nothing but love Them. Unlove Them.

P.S. The singer's voice, Tommi, may or may not be liked, and in my aesthetic delirium I like it a lot, but I admit that often it can be more irritating than the "pecks" against the bathroom door at six in the morning.