Trombe di Falloppio
Padre Abarth

A Trumpet solo

The Myth of Falloppio in Greek Tragedy

Or "With all the crappy music around... really Fedetz?"

These days, it's quite common to use vulgar language with ease, including jerks.

But here, it's all about actions, not words.

Since the world is the totality of facts, Falloppio is a guarantee. One that ensures the jerks stay in their place. Without drawing attention. At most, they play the music of the strobespheres. Which, if you look into them, you only see how you're made inside. Like Fedetz in front of a bunch of broken mirrors.

If you sign a contract, the least they can do is publish your album. Without all the coke-pepsi-ossodurisms. Everything went as smoothly as whale oil on a seal's skin. Like a pirate and a gentleman slide between the sheets of their beloved. So, consequently, Falloppio, Strega, and Flober, with Mr. Za and Allo, in quarantine in a studio in Monferrato due to conjunctivitis, couldn't wait after 35 months to release "Padre Abarth".

Mercurio Flavio, a planet of storms and troublemakers, devised a plan. Strongly agreed upon by Strega and Flo. They played fairies resembling witches until the day before yesterday. Then, when you least expect the unexpected, here's the new album. Out of who knows where. Made with who knows what. Heavy metal style, hard rock, folkabbestia (apo)catalytic; exhalations of Entombed, surges of AC/DC, Saxon cavalry, (e)virated black sepia sabbatical.

The Flavio bivalve returned loaded from the Ardennes. He came back tightly from the Dardanelles. Once again from the rudolfensis hominids but, this time, to take us into his imaginary world: a Fantasyland where you're welcomed, with (short and) open arms, by the dwarf woman while the orchestra plays the Ninth. There, King Falloppio explores your potential with the power of his mind. Once he moved a mint from the box to his hand with his thoughts. That time Strega spoke French: Jeu de main, jeu de pensée qui pense à lui-même!
Jeu du Destin, je Witch, j'ai faim, mangeons un sandwich! So, between one thought and another, a salami and soppressa sandwich & vegan snack with chickpeas, rosemary, and parsley (“You're vegan/I know/You told me/And so for love/I adapt/Tofu has pissed me off”) this twin album was born. First, it showed its little face, then its little rear. The midwife decreed: Look, twins!

At first, the album was frail. A bit of vitamins, a bit of grunge, a bit of punk, a bit of self-love-just love... a bit of "the strength inside a muscular man" and it achieved a robust constitution combined with an extraordinary intellectual maturity. People were amazed. Its creators, at the Monferrato Resort, were proud of that Purana child. Indeed, its creators were strong having read true sacred Vedic texts in bed: Bhāgavata Purāṇa or Śrīmad Bhāgavatam! With the mysticism, they conceived and brought it to light. A mystical birth, where reason and being merged into unity at the sound of the tambourine. And Falloppio didn't even ask anymore who played it. Because, since then, he himself has become the pure essence of sound. The unity that floats in becoming while absent-mindedly picking his nose. His deeply united self, which forgets to pay the tab at the bar on the corner of his soul.

But above all, the overcoming of all dualism while shouting into the microphone that the sound technician forgot to turn on. But he doesn't get mad. His adult self is equal to his adult work. He turns with dignity and grace, his eyes affable, a bit dopey: Shall we try again? - Try again! And he tries again. And the proof is the dizziness this great piece of art gives us.

The height, the beauty, the interweaving.

It's only rock'n'roll but, if it were a rare steak, we'd love it just the same.

Anyway, All you need is All you can eat: if Falloppio still proves equal to his reputation as a "braised beef enthusiast" (which his wife presents as Mississippi Pot Roast), Strega was weaned on Swiss semolina. Shakespeare, Allo's last name, is just a bad boy hiding other people's chips in the Kleenex. Flober and Mr. Za still roast marshmallows dipped in antibacterial disinfectant during breaks because "sweet cotton is needed on scraped bitter knees" (a home-work song devised by them).

So here we are, “stuck in traffic jams” but in good company: Kṛṣṇa, hard and pure rock, little roast, the Tractatus Logico-Philophobico, a sombrero, pieces of Play-Doh and of Dido, the Do round and the Ladies round, John Donne, wooden-like skirting boards, oils and ponds; all sketching out a fantastic picture that literally invents reality, of this new impressive album. A Monet painting before it's painted. A perfectly useful album, neither more nor less than what a mouse needs to survive the cat. For a rabbit to reproduce. And for us to know we won't miss the appointment with fate. Especially if we wish to cool an unusual soup. Perhaps wondering, if prescribed by an evil Marzullo genius, whether the Absurd is the magnet of Metal or if the Absurd is the calamity of Metal.

Either way, "Padre Abarth" is a major power-steering to the nu-Absurd Metal! Effective even against motorists' curses.

Beyond the Dune, Flavio you are now a Legend. Like Prometheus, like Harry Bellerophon in “Banana Boat”, where Homer sang to slay the Chimera!

And you, if you're tired of the usual Apollonian Greek yogurt, here's a mythological album, between PriScilla Presley and John Cariddi. Between Circe and the circus. That is, beware, don't cast pearls before swine if a chimpanzee is riding a motorcycle. In short, we will never solve the Homeric question, nor will Flavio solve his erectile dysfunction. But this album, drop-shaped and slightly projected upwards, perfect in hindsight, can certainly fit inside a champagne glass (so says Armand de Brignac in the essay “Your erogenous zones”). But let's jump over the ditches. And champagne for everyone! Except Pasifaedetz.