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About how and why the third effort by Shame is my album of the year. Raise your hand if you like post-punk. The rest can comfortably stop. Avoid, gloss over, move on, do something else, try to devote your time to recreational activities, focus your listening on other musical shores. 'N c'è trippa per gatti.
Worm food has been gathering dust on the shelf for a long time. I too gathered dust in November. Post-punk, I was saying, which I take in extensive doses over short periods. For me, the revival from the United Kingdom means minimalism that bursts into explosions, an alternation of vital repulsions expressed in dizzying ups and downs, transmission of dark frequencies, sensations of cold. Anxiety attacks lasting 40 minutes. It's characterized by what I might perceive as a detachment, born of an awareness of the relativity that accompanies human miseries. Shame would be no different, except that to my ears they reveal less than others an enviable distrust towards creation. So yes, I've always liked their style, if you can call it that.
About a mental journey, an unexpressed desire. A soundtrack for a path yet to be sketched. Shame lifts me up only to make me plunge even more violently. They've matured, some edges have been smoothed but made darker, introspective, emo flashes with certain metrics from poisoned Bloc Party. It seems (and not just to me) to hear the embittered version of Stephen Malkmus. In "Six Pack" somehow the early Red Hot Chili Peppers. In the ballads, the sensation of expanded space from Interpol. The song endings are never predictable, leaving you suspended waiting for something that will never come. With the risk of sometimes overdoing it: "Different Person".
About Adriatic coastal regressions and low pressure. About how and when that time with a broken jacket I was coming home, to a hostile place. Climbing up the boot with each crossing the scenery changes, languages change, the colors of the earth vary. For instance, the Chioggiotto dialect appeared as gloomy as the fog I was cleaving. Yankees. The north, of exactly what? Still north, with the underlying idea of being effectively above someone or something. The more I climbed, the more I felt torn apart. Besides my bile, the average alcoholic content of the average individual was also rising. I could almost smell the dedication to work, not to mention attachment, as I struggled up that unrelenting expanse of the lowlands. Pellagra isn't even a memory anymore. This is what made us better: the obsolescence of the square. Because gathering places fade until they disappear and turn into BARS. Which is then a diminutive of barbarian. The squares up north are anachronistically relegated to the market. The parks there are toxins so much that even kids can't graze breathing clean air. "I don’t care, I'll just take my dose then I'll smile for a while".
Favorite track: "Yankees".
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