The Walkabouts
Travels in the Dustland

And even this year I got rid of Christmas and New Year's with great relief and went to bed well before Mr. Satan himself woke up.

Only, upon waking, I was left with a bittersweet sensation, and it wasn't the zampone with lentils, no, rather 2021 went up in smoke; because that sly one had tempted me with the hope that the beloved Walkabouts would return, no less than 10 years passed since the last time they stood before me and made room at their side for a brief but intense journey through the dusty lands.

Then Carla Torgerson vanished and Chris Eckman took other paths – solo, with Dirtmusic, alongside Tamikrest – even though the Walkabouts always ideally walked by his side.

The Walkabouts.

Originally the moral alibi for Sub Pop to excuse the atrocities of those louts Tad Doyle and company: it lasted five albums, between the United States and Germany.

Then Virgin, and an album – «Devil's Road», twenty-six years ago, it was January 2, 1996 – opened by that undefined thing which is still today the song, the ballad, the poem, whatever it may be, the most bewildering thing I've heard in all these years, and the beauty of it is that it even has a title «The Light Will Stay On».

Here it is, twenty-six years today that I love the Walkabouts, Carla, Chris and all those who passed through those ranks. Twenty-six years, more than half my life's journey, and I start counting them one by one: one for my sadness, two for my sweat, three for each of the unusual and never forgotten stories …

You count too and let me know when, why, how and for what you arrived at twenty-six.

In the meantime, I move on.

Because, after Virgin, we're at the final farewell to the big record industry and the arrival at the artisans of Glitterhouse, another five albums, between 1999 and the fateful 2011.

And if it is true as it is true that the sum makes the total, then that makes thirteen albums in thirty-four years.

The Walkabouts are those who in thirteen albums haven't been able to fit in a bad song, for me, they are this and only this.

For everybody else, they are those of the "desert rock" but it never quite convinced me, for me the "desert rock" is something belonging to Thin White Rope in the new world and Died Pretty in the antipodean world.

For the Walkabouts, more than sand, it's a matter of dust, the dust layered on furniture and floors and clothes and memories; and, if it must indeed be desert, it is the desert I have inside, the desert of the soul, as Carla once said about «Travels in the Dustland», traveling in dusty lands, indeed, those that I can't find marked on any map, they call me, they burn and they're gone. Perhaps Slovenia is one of those, but I've never been there so I won't put my hand in the fire.

Then, wanting to be less philosophical and more down-to-earth as suits me, the label of "desert rockers" attached to the Walkabouts never quite convinced me also because in their albums I found very few traces of acid sarabands and electric rides, rather being populated by a traditional fusion of rock, blues, country and folk rendered with unmatched songwriter taste, between Neil Young in the seventies and Nick Cave cleaned up, but not too much.

All within the eleven stages of this journey through dusty lands, six years after «Acetylene», the rust, the indignant rage, how is it possible that Carla and Chris hold the same passport as those who voted for young Bush.

Eleven stages of a necessary journey to also gain further awareness and the umpteenth certainty of how history turns, always badly, always worse.

Three ballads open it, mark the road made and yet to be done halfway through the work and finally close the affair, «My Diviner», «They Are Not Like Us» and «Horizon Fade», each more beautiful than the last, Carla’s voice guiding me elsewhere, because one thing is certain at this point, the dusty lands that the Walkabouts sing of are not of this world, let alone Slovenia and Slovenia of Egypt.

In between, the epic manifesto «The Dustlands» and the almost garage-like impetus that disrupts «Soul Thief», as if the spirit of Jeff Connoly has invaded Chris; and a «Thin of the Air» that in any Cave album would fit wonderfully, for me somewhere between «Your Funeral … My Trial» and «Tender Prey»; and «Long Drive in a Slow Machine», simply splendid, the suggestion is strong, Green On Red on the road of «Gas, Food, Lodging» if only they had been the Walkabouts; and the angry jolt «No Rhyme, No Reason»; and the ethereal «Every River Will Burn» and «Wild Sky Revelry».

If it were the last appearance of the Walkabouts, I would wear a hat just to enjoy tipping it in admiration of an impeccable career and record.

But it's the same story that I keep buying records hoping to stumble upon something of the sort one day, and so even in 2022, the hope is that the Walkabouts will once again stand before me to offer a journey wherever it may be, another 363 days, come on.