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Rating: First of all, you should know that the imposing Philips radio I have in my garage comes from none other than the distant last millennium, just like this collection of covers & remakes released in '94: and it's exactly from that same lost millennium that I hadn't turned it on.
At the time, its most modernist feature consisted of a remarkable two (and I say two) cassette decks: often, especially when the tape becomes inextricably tangled between the gears, it tends to digest them, emitting the consequent burp as a sign of satisfaction and appreciation.
In this abulic historical phase, the Philpsone has been used to create an appropriate sound humus that generates the right climax for doing some healthy anaerobic and aerobic activities in captivity.
This morning, just like every previous (and I suppose future) morning, overwhelmed by the cosmic void, I rummaged through the heap of archaic and dusty vintage cassettes, finding such a soundtrack to play to do a bit of demolishing physical activity: just to prevent myself from becoming, shortly, wider than tall.
Not that it takes much, though.
There are, however, a couple of mysteries of faith to uncover:
The first mystery, a priority, is to understand why on earth I own this cassette.
I had completely forgotten that I had bought it.
But that’s not the main point.
The fact is that the Kiss have always made me expel abnormal protozoa shaped like hot air balloons, therefore beyond the limits allowed by the latest decrees.
And so, even if reinterpreted by other artists, the matter should not have been particularly exciting.
Perhaps some names that were inside (Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Lemonheads, Anthrax, Dinosaur Jr. among many) tickled my auditory sensitivity?
Perhaps some names that were inside [Lenny Kravitz, Extreme, Garth Brooks, Shandi's Addiction (who?) among many] tickled my bodily evacuations?
Maybe I liked the evocative title of the collection?
I don’t remember!
It’s useless to insist with the questions.
The second mystery I do not recall: if anyone happens to remember it, remind me before forgetting it.
Overall, there are many tracks, though I no longer recall how many.
Perhaps this is the second mystery I couldn't remember.
Anyway.
Of the entire sequence, I can say that the one by Anthrax, “She”, competes equally with “Unholy” - sung in German for the delight of the Austro-Hungarians - performed by Die Ärzte, for the title of the most horrible of all: medal groups aren’t good at making covers, you know.
Perhaps they think making a cover means just making it faster and angrier than the original.
And these aren’t even faster nor angrier: just as ugly as (maybe) the originals, which I have no pleasure in knowing.
“Things are a bit more complicated than that,” as Divo Giulio used to say to justify his murky democratic plots.
It has nothing to do with anything, but I liked saying it.
At the end of the day, of this (lacking) hour of pseudo-music, the one I absolutely disliked the least was a calm, almost pleasant version of “Rock And Roll All Nite” played by Toad The Wet Sprocket, whom I don't know but whom I think deserve every bit of the 4,900 lire paid back then at Sweet Music for the reckless purchase.
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