Thought Riot
Sketches of Undying Will

In my very personal ranking of "100 things that well, it sucks but we gotta deal with," Anti-Flag holds the 2nd place, ex aequo with menstrual delay and Birramoretti shootouts (for those obsessed with rankings, the top spot is contested by Juventus F.C. and the phrase "I love you like a brother"). But the Pippo Civati of hardcore also have some merits:

- they are biodegradable;

- they founded A-F Records.

A record label that has given me some of the best hc punk moments of the 2000s. DIY ethic, no nonsense and lots of energy. Merits that, unfortunately, have not been able to do anything against the misfortune that intimately afflicts A-F: being a healthy carrier of bad luck. In other words, the stable struggles, but its horses, as soon as they reach a minimum of artistic maturity, are overwhelmed by the most unpredictable misfortunes (random pregnancies, chronic tendinitis, leprosy, elusive ball hernias...).

I'm talking about Pipedown and, above all, Thought Riot. I love Thought Riot to bits.

The pimply trinity of my high school years included AFI (yes, them), Bad Religion and, of course, them. They didn't do dark-punk or other crap spawned by the Linnean aspirations of the Punkadeka forum. They made a splendid melodic hc, born from the decay of early Adolescents and nurtured by AFI and Good Riddance. They were like Davey Havok with heterosexuality, in short, even though they had a couple of ovaries on rhythm guitar. Not that the 1997-2005 AFI were excessively camp, but they had that (extraordinary) refinement that somewhat diminished their primal aggressiveness.

A whole different story for Mark Riot and company who, in their masterpiece Sketches of Undying Will (2003), glide effortlessly through power chords and Pete Finestone without thinking too much: "With Love, the Underground" is an excellent example of what a hc debut in the 2000s should be, with its choirs, vocalizations, and breakdowns; the chilling foresight of "On New Tablets" is orchestrated in a way to satisfy even the most epileptic of slamdancers; "Hard Words," finally, is a splendid gallop: had it been written by Rise Against, we would already have a DLC ready for Guitar Hero.

You realize the album is exceptional when you explore its more meditative moments. The harmonics of "The Hermit of Sils Maria" are the only lyrical excess of an album that flaunts itself without being pretentious. Because Thought Riot are obsessed with Nietzsche and do nothing to hide it, indeed, they give themselves an air. They evoke suggestive and intelligent images, like that of a prophet sheltered among human errors, exhausted by the raw ruthlessness of his revelations. But they talk about it in a whisper, without dragging it out too much, aware that they are not infallible gurus with easy sloganeering (right, Justin Sane?). Even the politicized "I Voted for Nader," in the end, is just a savvy polemic against militant Atticism, not at all stuffed with stale rhetoric.

So, that was my 2003. That was my fifth year of high school. AFI had been replaced excellently, who with Sing the Sorrow already displayed mannerisms conducive to MTV Awards and white suspenders. But this D'Annunzian hardcore, between socio-political denunciations and eternal return ("Glenview," "Cycle of the Streets"), was too interesting to last: 2006 arrives and TR, instead of definitively establishing themselves, dissolve amid quarrels and tendinitis. I didn't care too much back then: soon the best album ever was going to be released: Decemberunderground (Mosca's magic 8-ball probably had a better insight). The horror vacui was felt shortly after. Gone. A spark and little more. Just any Roberto Baronio. An irreparable loss, at least for me.

Last year, by chance, I discovered a posthumous release by them, called "Rock Is Not Revolution." The best thing they had ever done. Melodic yet furious. More mature, more sassy. How convenient would they be today. Who knows what album they would have put out in 2006 if meritocracy existed. Instead, there are A Day to Remember, hashtags, and the belief of changing something by donating two euros to the mayor of Florence.

How beautiful the world was without Spotify and compulsive sharing. I crave solitude. I want my Soulseek and my 2003 back. Listen less to listen better. I want the smell of new booklets back. I want my pimples back.