Vic Chesnutt
West of Rome

Speaking of Vic Chesnutt, it’s impossible not to mention the event that shook his existence. At 19, while driving completely drunk, he was the victim of an accident that condemned him to be paraplegic for the rest of his life. A life which, incidentally, had already begun with the trauma of adoption. The car crash also partially compromised the use of his arms and hands, so much so that, watching any video of his live performances, it’s clear that he could only play a limited number of chords using a “peculiar” fingering style. And to complete the picture regarding this event, it must be said that Vic never managed to calmly come to terms with the physical impairment that fate had imposed on him, a fact evidenced by the self-destructive path he inflicted upon himself. Indeed, he continued to abuse alcohol for many years and attempted suicide multiple times, successfully accomplishing the act (“accomplishment”...) “only” on December 25, 2009, also worn out by debts incurred for the medical care he needed, unfortunately lacking health insurance, due to the meager earnings from his admittedly uncomfortable role as a cult musician.

Personally, I discovered Vic Chesnutt with the song “Coward,” as I was sitting on a roadside marker one early summer morning, lost in my own thoughts (chissà se qualcuno capirà questa mia citazione...). A blues-rock as black as pitch, arranged like a funeral march, alternating between moments of repressed tension and outbursts of unbridled rage, with electric guitars sharp as scimitars and pounding drums. Without a doubt, it’s one of his most powerful songs. It’s included in his final album, “At the Cut” (released in September 2009, just three months before he passed away). In this regard, I can firmly state that not everyone is able to bid farewell to life with such an inspired testament of an album, one that doesn’t feel like the work of an artist who felt his days were numbered. Just like “North Star Deserter” from 2007, “At the Cut” showcases a sonic and “writing” evolution that is surprising if you trace it back to the start of his artistic journey.

A beginning owed to a stroke of luck (and it’s somewhat ironic to call it that...). In fact, while Vic was “cutting his teeth” in the clubs of his Georgia, it happened that Michael Stipe, just then reaching worldwide fame, attended one of his performances and was so impressed that he made sure Chesnutt had the opportunity to record his first batch of songs before it was too late. And thus was born “Little,” released in 1990 but recorded in 1988. Sung by that slightly nasal voice, so pained and so recognizable, with essential, lean, stripped-down tracks stemming from an irrepressible urgency, built solely on Chesnutt’s brutally strummed acoustic guitar, with the occasional addition of harmonica and electric guitar, where a vivid contemplation of death, suicide, misfortune, and all that belongs to the most dramatic side of life is already revealed.

However, the fact that Vic was quick to evolve is already demonstrated by the subsequent “West of Rome,” the subject of this review. Released in 1991 and again ennobled by the production of Michael Stipe, it presents songs arranged in a markedly better fashion, with richer and more varied instrumentation. Ultimately, it’s an album less “naive” and “lo-fi” than the previous one, and more mature and thoughtfully constructed.

And it’s no coincidence that some of the best songs of his twenty-year career already emerge here. Starting with the title track, which moves along slowly and dreamily, on the wings of a barely hinted piano melody, only to be shaken in the finale by Chesnutt’s liberating scream. An extraordinary song, revealing Georgia not as a sweet and enchanted place to be missed, as depicted by Hoagy Carmichael in “Georgia On My Mind,” but rather as a land crossed by a restless and suffering humanity. And “Florida,” with a stentorian piano underpinning the song, where the theme of suicide returns, treated in a less raw manner than in “Bakersfield” from the previous album. And then there’s “Where Were You,” which rolls out pleasantly and catchily, with a memorable chorus that easily sticks in your mind and reveals a “pop” vein that the songwriter cynically only tapped into in a few other tracks (such as “Strange Language” in “Is the Actor Happy”). Or even “Sponge,” swallowed like bitter syrup with its background of afflicted strings and lyrics expressing the resignation of a man who knows that in this world and in this life there are no chances for redemption. Or again, “Withering,” so sweet and delicate, perhaps from a strictly musical point of view the best of the bunch, with its instrumental coda gently soaring on the wings of a beautiful interplay between multiple electric guitars. And I could also mention the gracefully adorned chamber-folk of “Soggy Tongues” or, among the outtakes, the haunting, dark “Nathan,” with its striking, powerful chorus, delivered, by the way, excellently.

But I’ll stop here, because I think I’ve already said plenty. So all that’s left to do is listen to the vast body of work of a great songwriter who spent an entire life flirting with death, both courting and fearing it at the same time, and who nevertheless found the strength to leave a lasting legacy in the middle of this vale of tears, even though his soul never stopped bleeding from the very first day he became paraplegic.

Post scriptum: A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since that morning on the roadside marker. Thank you for everything and for all, Vic. Your music is dear to me like few things are.