The Fleshtones
Roman Gods

In the dream, the ancient gold was revealed anew, the love for beat and r&b is an ember smoldering under the ashes that gives the impression of an extinguished fire. The Fleshtones have, on the contrary, kept it alive for five years of contractual woes by stoking it with their most fitting dimension: live performances.

This is pure faith: 1982 and the new album explodes uncontrollably like spring every blessed year on this now-crazed planet. It's always been like this, from the time of the young caveman hypnotized by the tribal rhythm of drums to that of the biker enchanted by the rumble of his new Harley. The trembling six strings of Keith Streng's guitar spark off the toga party, what better than the Farfisa of “I gotta chance my life” or “Stop fooling around” can make that maniac Bluto Blutarski dance? The Fleshtones shine within a garage transformed into a dance hall and the beat of “Hope Come Back” accompanies us as we navigate a swaying crowd until our eyes meet other eyes and discover they belong together.

Peter Zaremba with his tuft appears to us like a big brother encouraging us to make a mess with “The Dreg”. Precisely the mess that the next day gives us a big headache upon waking, seeing us in a blue and white striped pajama while handling an orange juice carton that will dissolve the pasty mouth. Then to put us in a good mood we need a slinking beat like “Let's see the sun”, just to try and figure out what shape the trees will have today and what smell the wind will have. But with the Fleshtones there’s no need to worry, they are excellent musicians who value the past and offer it to us in the form of a rhythm & blues (“Ride your pony”) or a country beat ballad (“The world has changed”) which intensifies gradually like rush hour traffic. Perhaps the anticipation is more important than the final moment and the lunch hour spent at the “Chinese Kitchen” with Zaremba's harmonica blowing on the fire of impatience helps us kill time until darkness falls.

Ready? The mass arrival in the dead of night on the beach lit by paper lanterns hanging in the wind is the end of the adventure that one doesn’t want to call by name for fear it might vanish. “Roman Gods” is a joyful yet solemn instrumental played on the echoes of Peter's tribal calls. We scream sha-la-la-la... and deep down we are just creatures caught in the dance at the peak of the night with the fear that these moments of happiness might vanish leaving us with just the drums beating the time.

The rating? We don’t rate the dream, we live it.