The Comet Is Coming
Live @ Dromos Festival, Fordongianus 11.08.23

THE REVIEW

Actually, I intended to talk to you about the wonderful guttural set I recently attended by the phenomenal Tenores di Bitti Gruppo Remunnu 'e Locu: practically the #analcunt proto-Nuragic.

But knowing that you snobs from DeBaser don't love overly mainstream stuff, I turned my chatter towards this trio of Anglo-Saxon bumpkins: The Comet Is Coming.

In fact, a couple of years ago, they had performed in a pleasant location not too far from the residential wasteland, but, of course, I didn't go to see them: I don't like easy wins and, above all, I tend to carefully avoid the possibility of making bad encounters.

I'll say it right away: the comet arrived with a bang thanks to one of the most engaging para-pseudo-jazz concerts I've ever attended.
If I had to outline a personal jazz-podium (live) of all time, I would place them a tad below the gargantuan Shibusa Shirazu Orchestra and the set of that old fox John Zorn: both seen at S.Anna Arresi Jazz in the Pleistocene.

"Ah, so now, according to you, The Comet Is Coming would play jazz?"
[Have I ever told you that I hear the VOICES? But I think you all do, there, hear them too: or at least just read them]

Well, yes, I mean, maybe not.
[Because to the VOICES you must answer something, you know]

Okay:
so let's say it was one of the most engaging proto-rock concerts I've ever attended: having to outline an ideal rock podium (in real life) of all time I would place it a tiny bit below the Dantean circle inhabited by Crash Worship and Mr. Bungle: both experienced with hectoliters of years ago.

"Ah, so now, according to you, The Comet Is Coming would play rock?"

Well, no, maybe not, I mean, but maybe a little yes too.

Okay:
then let's say one of the most alternative concerts - when you have no idea how to describe things, the apathetic label "alternative" remains the ultimate choice - the coolest of all time.
Brilliant that mad maniac behind the keyboards who every 3x2 (6) enjoyed throwing silicon shards and napalm bombs at the audience, not unlike the gloomy atmospheres of Blade Runner.
And then that other crude individual on drums unleashing backhands and punches with absolute generosity and micro-surgical precision: his gyrations reminded me of the prodigious drummer of Talibam! but with the providential gift of synthesis.

"Yes, okay, but, exactly, they would be alternative to what?"

Ajø! And don't saw off my kallønis!
(The cursed VOICES must be silenced somehow sooner or later)

But then:
it's not my fault if the set at times seemed like a techno-electronic mush worthy of a bleakly hallucinogenic rave party and a minute later you were catapulted into a heavy free-jazz cauldron, with the saxophone howling/shouting/croaking in full swing: a dense maelstrom like the best eardrum-breakers of the previous and current millennium.

And they up there seemed to have a world of fun doing it.
And so did we down there listening to them.

Beyond the jokes, the beauty of proposals like the one advocated by Shabaka & Co. - especially when enjoyed from beneath the stage - is that they express a sum that contemplates, embodies, and fuses in a single repulsive and bubbling cauldron a bit of the best stylistic drifts within the musical genres currently available.
I didn't really understand what I wanted to say, but I've said it now.

N.A.M.:
As an avid scrutinizer of great culinary-culture programs like "4 Ristoranti," I want to give a Note of Absolute Merit (Score 8.5) to the ultra-stuffed sandwich from the stall: it was almost impossible to close due to how stuffed it was with every delight: grilled neck, eggplants, zucchinis, cheese, and sauces to satiety.
It existed in both Carnivore and Herbivore versions (without neck: suitable for you bumpkins who until yesterday eagerly devoured the Four Cheese Stegosaurus and now act so snobby!) which for a handful of euros made the long wait for the concert more bearable and digestible.

They say that if you burp at the end of the meal it's a good sign: think that as a declared gentleman I've even burped three times in a row.
Just like the three on stage: it must mean something, right?