The Dream Syndicate
Medicine Show

Rino Tommasi in his commentaries used to mark a good point in a tennis match with the term “red circle”; yesterday was just an unexpected "red circle" day, and so I lasso it and try to tie it to a record. Maybe I'll read it over one of those days, twisted and skewed, that will surely not be lacking in the near future.

And to think that Saturday began with a sort of naval siren at 6:00 AM that had me rolling out of bed in search of the first available lifeboat. The insults from the swearing neighbors soon directed me to the not-dream-like source of the siren: the damn neighbor across the street. Sometimes I think the real reason why she insists on adorning her clunky piano-like legs with heels, as dizzying as they are pathetic, is just to torture the unfortunate person living below; the bitch, who in a condo meeting could fill a saint's mouth with asterisks. She must have changed the alarm clock, and who knows with what care, joy, and satisfaction she must have done it. I imagine her bringing her hand close to her triple chin, trying to hold back and control the emotion: a sort of climax of the month when, after exhausting deliberation between the belch of a grizzly and the flatus of a rhinoceros, she must have opted for the damn siren.

But, as I said, it was a very positive day and with a smile on my face I turned my stereo speakers towards her dwelling: the evergreen “Reign in Blood” ready to counter, at the same volume, the melodies of Eros Ramozzotti the next time she exercises pointlessly.

The sun had already risen. The mild temperature, the absence of wind, the inviting sunlight combined with the piles found between my shoulder blades pushed me to take my running shoes for a refreshing and long workout at altitude. Then forkfuls full of laughter followed by a drink in the city. Nonsense, a glass too many, maybe three, to seal a meeting with the female sex that who knows. I half intended to end with a book/cinema in company but that sun, so hard to die in June, was so inviting. I found myself taking a walk following an easy path leading to the summit above my house: like a fool, I used to follow it to the limit of my capabilities, watching the stopwatch. I waited for the sunset with a beer in one hand, the camera in the other, and enjoyed the changing light for an hour. Sparse drops of sweat dried by the warm summer wind that whipped the tree canopies with a soft noise that, due to mp3, I could only imagine in my mind. The snow on the higher peaks reflected the last rays of the sun: a clear sky for several clicks. Days like this are born by chance, unexpected, you just have to take them and make them last as long as possible.

Going to that concert had been a gamble because, fundamentally, I am a curious biped. I had thought that if I had survived, not without difficulty, the live performance by the Swans (totally unknown to me), I would have no problems with the equally unknown The Dream Syndicate. Caio spoke to me about them with engaging enthusiasm, and now I must thank him because the performance of over two hours will remain with me for a long time; it is evidenced by the ease with which the unknown abrasive melodies (very noisy guitar performance live) of the American group have stuck in my mind. It was quite straightforward to find myself in the studio version of the same, decidedly cleaner and more polished: a bit like when, after a prolonged abstinence, you try to get the better of a bra using one hand. The fingers, despite the time, do not struggle too much; I believe they are guided by the beautiful memory. For almost two lonely hours, up there, I remained until the first shy dark of the evening in the company of “Medicine Show”.

Almost psychedelic melodies coil around the voice of the leader Steve Wynn and the catchy and technical guitar riffs: it's a dirty sound, that of Precorda's six-string, counterbalanced by a heavy use of the piano. Ten seconds are enough to make me fall in love with the opener “Still Holding on to You”; a similar structure also for “Bullet's Got my Name”, a mid-tempo that fades sweetly in the head like an echo trapped between the high walls of a mountain. The sound production seemed particularly well-crafted to me, capable of highlighting all the instruments, and the rhythm section deserves a mention (cf. “Daddy’s Girls” and “Armed with an Empty Gun”). The duo Duck/Provost takes possession of the listener's limbs as if they were attached to invisible threads. The catchy guitar riff of “The Medicine Show” lends itself to hypnotic melodies similar to the slow moments of a snake's coils, while “Burn” is the track that opens my days for two weeks while facing the hairpin bends to get into the city: guitars, piano, and vocal lines blend for a simple and regenerating ballad.

I hate long reviews and especially those that mention all the tracks; it's clear that I've done a lousy job but rarely have I had the chance to appreciate a record from start to finish, including the lyrics. There are only eight tracks, it’s true, but they all seem to be of a very high level that doesn’t significantly lower even with repeated listens. My only comment is the position of “John Coltrane Stereo Blues”: with all due respect to “Meritville” I would have closed the record with that six to the superenalotto which I don't even attempt to describe and invite you to (re)listen while reading these lines video “I got some John Coltrane on the stereo baby/Make it feel all right/I got some fine wine in the freezer mama/I know what you like” […]

With my next savings, it is my firm intention to buy the debut CD of these “The Dream Syndicate” and the live album from '88, which perhaps, with dirtier sounds compared to the studio, could succeed in pleasing me even more than this gathering of five obese stars.