Raw Power
You Are the Victim

How does a universe form?

For decades, I’ve broken my back and strained my eyes over voluminous tomes, while my peers indulged in very different pastimes; but at least, I, have become cultured and, as of today, I can relate to you that various theories have been proposed on the matter, from creationism to the standard cosmological model, not to mention the clashes between branes, cosmic ghosts, and superfluid spacetime.

The prevailing theory is that the universe, at its birth, expanded from a point of infinite density, self-generating; but there is also a widespread belief that the universe originates from specific acts of divine creation…

But since this is a little page dedicated to Italian Hardcore and Raw Power, screw all this big bang and creation nonsense.

Because, after all, the Italian hardcore universe was born out of nothing at the dawn of the Eighties. Yes, out of nothing, because in Italy there wasn’t 1977 – the year punk broke – and don’t come talking to me about Tampax, Hitler SS, Skiantos, Gaznevada, Kandeggina Gang, and Decibel, come on.

But if nothing comes from nothing, and even the most fragrant rose garden needs abundant shovels of manure; and forgive the fine comparison, made just to support that our native hardcore emerges purely and simply from a phenomenon of emulation of what caught on in the United States and England.

And yet, it is precisely there, Across the Ocean and Across the Channel, that they coin this definition of Italian Hardcore, to mean that, although born by imitation, this universe has peculiar characteristics that had never been seen or heard elsewhere, for its ferocity and corrosiveness.

Maybe because the frustration and anger accumulated with no outlet exploded in unison, while elsewhere a couple of punk waves were a saving valve of relief, but the intransigence of Crash Box and Wretched, Cheetah Chrome Motherfuckers and Upset Noise, had no terms of comparison then, much less today.

Then, not always is intransigence a good adviser, as in the case of Italian Hardcore it often meant isolationism; as well as meaning the arbitrary choice of meeting places and self-production methods that resulted in the technical quality of the “final product” that was better likened to a well-aimed kick in the nether regions.

But, in essence, nobody cared, and they were damn right not to care, because without that intransigence Italian Hardcore would not have existed, or it would have been much, much less proud.

Someone, I have no idea who, called it a mosh massacre, and it’s scary just to say it; let alone to be caught in the middle or just to see it depicted, like on a historic cover of the hardcore zine TVOR.

And so, without even making too much of a fuss, I lined up what nourished that universe: self-production, social centers, fanzines.

To then spit out incredible groups like Raw Power; which in turn, in 1983, spit out that «You Are The Victim» that, together with the subsequent «Screams From The Gutter», is the solid support of their little legend.

Fourteen tracks, not even twenty-one minutes in length: unquestionably a mosh massacre.

This little page, in my intentions, wants to be a mosh massacre too, so I set myself a time limit to draft it, twenty-one minutes; no corrections, the first take is good; and I write it while the record plays at full blast.

Vinyl on the turntable, needle dropping, initial crackles, and a sudden hardcore whack onto the thirty-two teeth (thirty-one, to be precise, I’m missing a wisdom tooth).

Drums that sound terrible (to avoid saying awful), equally ignorant bass, raw and fetid guitar. Then, Mauro’s bastard screams inflame the eardrums.

A pedal-to-the-metal start.

I can't turn up the volume, it's just past dawn, so I put on headphones and stagger around the room, staging a personal propitiatory pogo.

Ninety-five seconds, not one more, is what «Politicians» lasts.

And then «Police Police», this one exceeds the minute by a breath.

Meanwhile, I knock on wood hoping my unsuspecting wife doesn’t wake up and notice what’s happening; I jump on the couch, and thrash wildly like a possessed person. I’m almost fifty years old, but this record has the power to shake me completely.

My wife keeps snoring, if only she knew what she’s missing.

«Burning Factory» damn well recalls the New York hardcore school, Agnostic Front, just to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, with a derailing finale that is manna from heaven.

They are profiling us, they are suffocating us, they are killing us.

Their minds are increasingly sick, repression now takes all forms.

State of oppression.

Fear is at every corner, bastards and sons of bitches are everywhere.

State of oppression.

It’s delirium, I’m in a trance state that leads me to mosh with even more fervor. Luckily, «State Oppression» barely exceeds a minute and a half.

Come on, go ahead, time to flip sides, and I’m halfway through the page mentally written.

The Raw Power still have rage and strength to express, so much fuel in their tanks to throw on the fire. They are raw, dirty, and ignorant: an overwhelming mix between Suicidal Tendencies and Dead Kennedys.

Still, the hysterical screams dominate in the raging and hyper-vitaminized «Death Seller».

But the finish line is close: it’s time for «Nihilist» and I throw away the last energies I have left.

The record ends, the needle completes its run, crackles again.

I put the record back in place and turn off the stereo.

I draft this little page and head off to bed.

Did you understand anything?

No?

No big deal, enjoy «You Are The Victim»!

Postscript

In case of misunderstanding, the crazy one getting high with Raw Power at two in the morning is Margarina.

Testa, as far as he’s concerned, went to sleep at ten o'clock, after delighting in the notes of the immortal piano concerto by the great Maestro Rachmaninoff.