Verdena
Elefante

A long time ago, when Kurt Cobain was slowly learning to disinfect the needle before inserting it into his vein and amusing himself with the perdition of Percodan, there were two little brothers, tenderly embraced by the sturdy arm of the Bergamasque hills.

Since they were young, they dressed as Clash, playing around with pieces by Cream. Initially, the two, convinced they weren't quite suited to the fledgling attitude, and rather demoralized, decided to overthrow it all. But one day, their fairy mother, seeing them play, said to them: "My dear sons, I didn't know you could perfectly copy Sunshine Of Your Love!"

At the sound of those words, the two little boys, respectively on guitar and drums, flashed a Colgate-worthy smile of angelic joy. As they grew, grew, grew, poor Cobain decided to put an end to his existence, detonating a shotgun up his jugular under the influence of heroin and battery acid, all in his solitary Seattle home, and thus ending up in all the newspapers, obviously even in the Italian ones. Hearing the alarming yet horrifying news, the two now young men boldly decided that if they could copy Cream, they could certainly copy Nirvana, whose rights were beginning to be divided...
However, aware of the oceanic distance from the state of Washington, the two brothers decided they would need to find a middle ground to complete it all, a group that would allow them to give ample life to their prosaic future, a band which, if well disguised with the Cobainesque-nevermindian sound, would make their ingenious metric contraption incomprehensible to the listener.

It was then, happily so, that they decided to brutally force the sound of a band that no one could yet know and understand well for the era: Placebo. But Placebo, unexpectedly corrupted by a certain David Bowie, began to achieve success even in Italy, and so the two boys decided to switch from English to Italian, maintaining however the typical melodic English singing: they would have been massacred by the critics of certain circles but... the lazy teenagers of half of Italy would all be for them!
The mere thought made them shiver with great joy and filled their cheeks with pure tears of happiness, confirmed by their first album. Growing more and more, their fame grew with their age, something that however became increasingly complex due to the inclusion of a new bassist, and even more complicated because the previous sound could no longer be repeated. But thanks to the timely help of the Good Samaritan Manuel, the three bold lads, proud to be who they were, decided to create a new imitation, more hidden to the ear, less direct and more peculiar than anyone could have believed: Motorpsycho.

No one could have discovered them, least of all their fifteen-year-old fans, who didn't even know where Norway was located. And after this umpteenth success, plump with bile and full of themselves, they proceeded to the last stage, an album all their own, recorded hastily, with the aim of securing an important place in the Olympus of the inimitable Italian rock'n'Church. After this latest and unmissable success, the three, becoming four due to reasons attributable to subsequent mutations of the Seveso disaster, decided to place a keyboard in the hands of what seemed to be the protrusion of a grandparent of the kitchen of Vasco Rossi. The design was complete!
Now all that was missing was an epic proof of their superiority! And they decided to produce a small artifact called "Elefante," with the aim of making the grandeur of their work remembered.

This latest album was very much appreciated by everyone for the originality of each of the five pieces called into question: pieces that evoked very suggestive settings, such as woods for example in the song "Corteccia", or pastures, as in the song "Mu", naturally holding firm the concept of this complete work, namely the frenetic Hinduism of the track "Elefante". Having published this splendid work, they decided not to appear anymore, to keep the mystery regarding their next endeavor. Every night, while children sleep, our four friends, with the Fairy Mother and the golden-hearted Samaritan Manuel, search for 127,001 possible compositions to fit new metrics drawn from what foreign rock has mostly proposed in the past, hoping and delighting in multiple amusements, thinking of their audience, finally sleeping warm and pleasant dreams.

But somewhere, along the banks of a river flowing in the state of Washington, near Seattle, a thin and skeletal specter, with long golden and wiry hair, began to scream for no reason, only to recomposite itself without hesitation. It drew in that little breath that belongs to an ectoplasm, and with a wrinkled manner whispered: "Shit... Where is Albino...?"

END