Tokyo Dragons
Give Me The Fear

Half asleep, I yawn, waiting for the coffee to quell this obsessive desire to rub my eyes continuously. So, without any particular destination, I drive aimlessly, at the mercy of the deserted asphalt tongues, abrasive and full of grit and salt, which stretch before me in sinuous curves. The windshield still has quite a bit of ice on the passenger side; the ice I lazily didn't want to remove, so I have to lean to see the whole road clearly. It remains in my field of vision for a moment: a time span still enough to make me turn back. Abandoned, near the Material Collection Center, there it is, a table. It has a thick layer of frost a couple of days old, which doesn't seem to undermine its sturdy structure. It looks at me like a condemned man who has no desire to end up as a handful of sawdust. I like it.

I enter the usual shop and pick up the plastic square. I read the flashy, defiant title with a curious air, mentally scanning the words. “Give Me The Fear”. A natural laugh escapes me, and although my back is turned to the counter, I know that he, the greedy jerk, is there, probably rubbing his hands together like a fly, already smelling the banknote.

My hand caresses the cold wood, and it's a pleasant sensation. I look at the legs. Stocky, regular, not at all slender and elegant, they're even short: just a rough guess, I’d say they barely reach 4 minutes. In their favor, they rest on vintage hard rock which will likely make them impervious to termites over time. The production is raw and not at all polished. Just like I like it because it lets all the nice guitar scraping and the pounding rhythm section be heard fully. I walk around the table. They must have used a lot of elbow grease and sandpaper to remove the splinters from this gnarled, irregular piece of wood full of veins, more or less deep. Like the sharp voice of the band leader Steve Lomax; energetic and capable of matching with the elementary riffing: a true backbone of every piece on the setlist.

The tabletop is thick and solid. I could even stand on it and jump if I wanted to. I know those legs would support me. It wasn't made with the tenderest heart of the Fiem Valley's spruces: those, just so we're clear, that gifted the world with the Stradivarius, but with solid mountain craftsmanship made to last over time, resisting the weather and temperature changes. Granitic '70s Hard Rock, in short, in full early AC/DC, Thin Lizzy, Kiss style for a 2005 album.

I take it and tear apart the cellophane. The stube finally thunders and booms with "What The Hell" and "Get’em Off": I grab a tennis racket and transform into a pathetic imitation of Angus Young, improvising chords and solos on the grip. I even try to chase the verses, but my tender, fragile vocal cords plead for mercy and raise a white flag, seeking water. The phone rings: I don't even think of picking up and interrupting the sonic jubilation in a continuum that allows no pauses or fillers. The strength of the setlist lies in the ease of execution with just a couple of guitars, a bass, and drums without synth, electronics, keyboards, and symphonic orchestras. It exudes passion: the true passion that drives a fourteen-year-old to start playing and dreaming. You don't need Nostradamus to figure out that if this debut had been decently promoted, “Do You Wanna?” and “Johnny Don’t Wanna Ride” would have made a massive crowd jump and clap their hands. “Come On Baby” and “Teenage Screamers” would probably have moved the same crowd hypnotically with a couple of massive mid-tempos that would have been a magnet for their feet. But it will never be so.

I look at it with a satisfied demeanor. This obsolete wooden bison fits well right in the middle of the room, with the stove and everything else. In my parents' living room, 2 floors above, a heavy glass table with elegant lines laughs. It mocks it. It flaunts, with haughty superiority, having the privilege of being the perch for fine cups and thus witnessing measured radical chic conversations. He, the clumsy mammoth, instead will be doomed to take punches in my lair for evenings of hand-tossing games and will be decorated with grape blood, amber liquid and candle wax. I could try to soften its coarseness, I say to myself, by placing a tablecloth on it. I press the skip button in search of a melodic ballad towards the end of the album; one of those identical lace covers from MTV. In vain. The Tokyo Dragons never even considered giving birth to a song that isn't festive, raw, and dynamite-like in its sound charge.

Yes, it might be outdated and unfashionable, derivative and a child of a bygone era, but “Give Me The Fear” is an album I've appreciated beyond the rosiest expectations. I don't know if it can be the start of a long career full of great LPs for these 4 Brits. I seriously doubt it: it's far sadder and more likely that the table will remain on the sidelines of some little-traveled road and become a lot of wood chips. It will gather dust in some cramped store, and it's a shame.

ilfreddo