Books and music: “Coal Black Mornings” by Brett Anderson

When at 14 years old I began to delve into Britpop’s magical web of music and gossip, Suede were one of the groups that I tended to put aside the most: despite being part of the so-called fundamental big four along with Blur, Pulp and Oasis, for some reason they didn’t attract me a lot. Not that I completely ignored them – I loved songs like Beautiful Ones and Animal Nitrate -, but years later I believe that my scepticism was mainly due to my boundless love for Blur and the influence that all that gossip I had absorbed about the romantic tension and jealousies between Brett Anderson, Justine Frischmann and Damon Albarn had on me: despite the second dumped the first to get with the third, by some distorted mechanism of my adolescent brain, in the spectacularly childish rivalry between the two frontmen, for me the bad guy was Brett. Then I grew up, I learned to direct my hatred towards the Gallagher brothers’ omnipotence complex, I discovered that Brett Anderson wasn’t as unpleasant as I thought and that Suede were really cool. What had I missed…

I dedicated the first months of this year to recovering part of their discography, with an interest fuelled by reading Lunch With The Wild Frontiers by Jane Savidge, the PR officer who in the nineties – among many things – took care of the way in which the press had to talk about Suede, already defined as “best new band in Britain” before even releasing any single. Their first three albums in particular have become an indispensable soundtrack, I watched the documentary The Insatiable Ones dividing it into small chapters to prevent it from ending too soon, I started to get emotional too after the hundredth viewing of the Royal Albert Hall concert in 2010 and created a pinterest board exclusively dedicated to Brett Anderson that any fashion student could envy me. (Any research conducted with such enthusiasm also has its downsides, such as the fact that not a day goes by without the chorus of The Drowners ringing in my brain completely unannounced, but these are unavoidable risks). Then I found out that Brett wrote not one, but two autobiographies, and that was the icing on the cake.

The first book is Coal Black Mornings and retraces the years from childhood to the beginnings of Suede – “before anyone really knew or really cared” -, but it’s not the usual self-celebratory work: in fact, it’s above all a gift from Anderson to his son Lucian, a document that will one day help him better understand his roots and truly understand his father’s youth; precisely for this reason, Brett focuses his narrative energies on the memory of years characterised by failures, anxieties, grief, but also by love and friendship. His was a childhood marked by constant economic difficulties and by the rigid, at times inhumane, school education of the 70s: he describes in great detail the tiny house in Haywards Heath, the furnishings and the paintings on the walls of his artist mother, his father’s tragicomic personality and his thousand jobs to support the family, the bond with the older sister, the stringy meat based dinners, the pennies scraped together with the first depressing jobs, the humiliation of parading in front of schoolmates in the canteen as a beneficiary of free meals. In the midst of these memories of poverty, the stories linked to the parents emerge with particular force, two imposing and complex characters with very different personalities: on one hand the mother Sandra, tender, welcoming, apprehensive, a lover of nature and with limitless creativity; on the other, his father Peter, eccentric, unpredictable, paranoid, obsessed with classical music and who convinced the family to cram themselves into the rickety Morris Traveler on a summer pilgrimage to Austria to the places of Franz Liszt. Brett portrays these pictures of family life with affection and gratitude, but also with a certain detachment that allows him – in moments of self-analysis – to identify the roots of some of his character traits and habits. Among the central themes are the father-son relationship and generational traumas: the compassion and maturity with which Anderson talks about and accepts his father figure are striking, recognising after years that many of his problematic sides were fundamentally the result of an affectionless and violent childhood and with an alcoholic parent, and that Peter tried with the few means (and terrible examples) at his disposal to ensure that his children didn’t have to grow up in fear.

Suede’s austere look has always deceived me, making me think that they were a snobbish and sophisticated band from a wealthy middle-class background; but by reading Coal Black Mornings I had to deconstruct this impression so rooted in my mind. As often happens, the boredom and alienation of the suburbs constitute fertile ground for creative spirits, and Brett Anderson certainly didn’t hold back when it came to emerging from his condition of isolation: the discovery of punk – in particular the Sex Pistols – represented the first glimmer of hope, a disruptive force that will push Brett towards the ambition of making music and above all outside the suffocating borders of Haywards Heath. Proceeding with the reading, Anderson guides us on a hypothetical journey through the lyrics that will compose Suede’s debut album, strongly inspired by the changes, traumas and experiences of this transition period: they’re songs that speak of marginalization, of unemployment, sexuality, transgression, anger, pain and loss. Each track is linked to a specific anecdote, demonstrating how innate Brett’s ability to observe and talk about life in all its most unusual, introspective and marginal aspects is.

In the move from the suburbs to London, the story is enriched with new characters: among these, in addition to future bandmates Mat Osman, Simon Gilbert and Bernard Butler, the central figure is Justine Frischmann – elegant, intelligent, charming and Anderson’s first love. Theirs will be a short but intense relationship, two people who are socially opposites but with a very strong understanding that will be the source of an unstoppable artistic passion; yet their (sad) breakup, paradoxically, will give Suede the definitive push they needed to define their identity and break through.

The story ends when the band signs their first contract. Brett masterfully outlines this sense of suspension, excitement and hope: we can imagine these four guys very well, their pallor enhanced by the winter sun outside the record office, euphoric and also a little confused. Difficult years await them but they don’t know it yet, because what matters is that that embarrassing “D-shaped space” in front of the stage is no longer empty. Finally, it’s time to leave the coal black mornings behind.

Shane MacGowan, a man you don’t meet everyday

by Agnese Alstrian

On Thursday November 30^th, at 3am, Shane MacGowan passed away. I read the news while preparing lunch and almost set the aubergines on fire. Is it normal to mourn the death of someone you’ve never met – or even knew you existed – as if they were a friend or family member? It might sound stupid, but I think so. As I grew up, the more music I listened to, the more I expanded my parallel family, a crowd of acquired fathers and uncles who gave me solace and support with their art – and Shane was one of them.

I started listening to The Pogues in 2012, I was 11 years old and they were probably the first band I discovered “on my own”, i.e. through The Clash and reading Rolling Stone: the December issue of that year contained an editorial on Joe Strummer for the 10^th anniversary of his passing, as well as a long article on the history of Fairytale of New York, The Pogues’ anti-Christmas success. In the following months I managed to put my hands on their debut album, Red Roses for Me, and carried that CD around so much that it gave the plastic case a nasty crack. I kept listening, singing and dancing, fascinated by that magical music that had never entered my house so far.

The Pogues opened the doors to a world unknown to me until then and made me understand that being punk also means being passionate about your culture so much that you manage to make old things new and vice versa (to paraphrase Jim Jarmusch): they didn’t wear torn clothes nor showed off distorted guitars; on the contrary, they were virtuosos on the accordion, tin whistle and banjo and dressed like hawkers (or undertakers, depending on the occasion). Shane MacGowan – scrawny, with (few) pitifully bad teeth and jug ears – was their bard: rather than singing he slurred and shouted while holding on to the microphone (often with a bottle or a cigarette in the other hand), but he wrote great. No one has ever managed to describe the misery and beauty of the human condition with so much authenticity better than him. And I’m not just talking about the pubs, the rivers of whiskey, the violence and the losers of society, because Shane didn’t limit himself to describing the harshness of what he experienced, but above all he had the delicate ability, through few and simple words, to make you feel the cold and humidity of a rainy day, to talk about love and to pay attention to the extraordinary nature of worldly things – like the song of the wind blowing along the river or the relief that the gentle gaze of a pair of brown eyes can give; in Lullaby of London, one of his most moving songs, he offers a prayer of protection from the noise of the city, from worries and bad dreams, praising the harmony of nature and the benevolence of angels.

Born on Christmas Day 1957 in England into a family of Irish Catholics, it seemed that the task of writing the greatest Christmas song of all time should have fallen to him: Fairytale of New York is a kick to the sappy sentimentality of the Holidays; there are broken dreams, arguments, loneliness, insults, drunk tanks, love declarations, grace, squalor and hope – the human essence from one extreme to another because, in the end, what is Christmas if not that time of the year in which we wish everything to change?

Today my heart aches a bit also for those who didn’t know Shane beyond the surface, because beneath the rotten teeth, the wild eyes and the ethanol often in circulation there was one of the most sensitive souls that music has ever had. A true narrator of life in all its complexity, who wrote like a poet and sang like a devil. I will miss him.

May the wind that blows from the haunted graves

Never bring you misery

May the angels bright

Watch you tonight

And keep you while you sleep

Thirty years of “Starshaped”

by Agnese Alstrian

Apparently, finding a taxi in Lucca is very difficult; if half the city is locked down for a Blur concert, it’s even worse. Four years after the last time, I’m back in this city to conclude the Damon Albarn trilogy: already seen him with Gorillaz and The Good, The Bad & The Queen, this time it’s the turn of the last band I thought I’d see live this summer – not to mention in my entire life. I never would have hoped for it.

I’ve been in Lucca for a few hours, all the bus stops are suspended and the hope that a taxi will stop begins to waver: it’s July and I slightly need a shower and a clean t-shirt. After an almost biblical wait, a vehicle finally stops at the lay-by from which an old man comes out, all bent over and looking like someone who has definitely had enough of living. Without too many pleasantries, he grabs our suitcase and makes me and my father sit on the back seats (first of all I notice the absence of a GPS, instead there’s only a very old Nokia hooked to the air conditioning vent, that’s obviously off); shortly after he asks us – or rather, orders – to squeeze in to accommodate a couple who were waiting with us. I usually don’t talk to strangers, but with the English I always make an exception: our taxi companions are called Dan and Holly, they’re from London, and they too are in Lucca for the concert (“how is it that you didn’t go to see them at Wembley?!”, I naturally ask them). Turns out they’ve been Blur fans basically for ages, they’ve even seen them play in Colchester when nobody was giving them attention yet: Dan also tells me that he can be seen crowd surfing in Starshaped, the 1993 documentary that I’ve now lost the count of how many times I’ve seen it. “I had a lot more hair back then”, he’s keen to point out.

To be honest, I hadn’t seen Starshaped in years, and it’s one of the things I plan to do once I get home – “to get over the post-concert melancholy”, I think. It’s just an hour-long and the image quality is awful, but watching it I remember why of all the documentaries shot on Blur (including B-Roads, famous for mysteriously disappearing for years and magically reappearing a few months ago) this is the one I love the most: maybe because it shows one of my favourite Blur periods, or that the wacky and lo-fi style of the shots – as a “fly on the wall” – can only be defined as a series of visual notes of the chaos that was the band in its early days, or perhaps what is really left with me is the sense of nostalgia for an era that I haven’t experienced.

Starshaped begins with the iconic shot of Damon, Graham and Alex running excitedly towards the camera – while Dave Rowntree instead takes his time – with Intermission in the background and in full Modern Life Is Rubbish outfit: suit jacket, jeans and Dr Martens. After a series of black and white images of airport waitings, blurry landscapes from the window, and boredom and excitement on the tour bus bound for Reading Festival, the band welcomes us in very English manners in 1993: “Hello. We’re in a service station, on a motorway, in a country”. Just long enough to memorise three of the places we’ll see the most in the documentary that we’re sent back to the summer of 1991: their first album Leisure will be out in a few days and the boys prepare for their performance at Reading by partying late into the cramped spaces of the bus, despite the orders of the tour manager Ifan (already exhausted after just three minutes of documentary) to go to sleep. Blur are still a new name and their rise in indie circles has just begun: backstage at the festival we see young, clean-shaven faces looking around with curiosity and nervousness; there’s Damon Albarn who spies with wide eyes on the audience waiting for them, before walking on stage with a bit of uncertainty. The studio version of There’s No Other Way soundtracks the flickering shots of the band and crowd, as well as local wildlife at the festival. In fact, one aspect of Starshaped that shouldn’t be underestimated is that it’s also an interesting document of fashion and subcultures of the early 90s: in a sequence that now after 30 years we could define as historic, we see indie kids, shoegazers, grunge fans, hippies, metalheads, punks, all camping next to each other.

To introduce the next chapter, future Blur return: the four are sitting in a sad and impersonal cafeteria, smoking in silence and having the distraught air of someone who has survived unspeakable hardships; the difference with the innocent and carefree faces we have seen until recently is evident. “The thing they asked us was what was it like being in Blur last year, in 1992”, Damon says. “And as you can see, no one has anything to say about it.” The following image probably sums up what has just been said perfectly, and reminds us that there’s nothing glamorous about the summer tours of an emerging band: Albarn vomits on the pavement just outside an airport – with that dark suit and sunglasses alone he could pass for a hungover James Dean lookalike -, then he catches his breath and opens his arms. The show must go on.

But first, some context. On August 26, 1991 (exactly two days after the concert at Reading Festival) Leisure was released, a debut album of its time and not particularly loved by the band, in hindsight. At the time Blur were a still unknown band, with a sloppy and questionable aesthetic: the eye wants its part, but the majority of the songs – strongly influenced by psychedelia and late 80s Madchester – are already considered outdated stuff; to this, let’s also add an incompetent manager (let’s name names and surnames: Mike Collins, and he can be seen in Starshaped with his face obscured as he wanders around the backstage of Reading) who runs off with all the album’s earnings. They’ve just started out and Blur already have a debt of 60,000 pounds: they hire a new manager, who to recover the missing money organises a huge tour of 13 exhausting weeks in the United States. But an ominous shadow looms, with Nirvana’s Nevermind coming out (according to Alex James) on the first day of the tour and the world finding a new obsession with the roughness and squalor of grunge: long story short, the dates turn out to be a total bust, and Blur go back home exhausted, disappointed, ignored and pissed off.

Going back to the documentary, the situation has definitely changed: in 1992 Blur inaugurate their battle to restore dignity to British music with the single Popscene, and at the same time they begin to work on that genre which will officially see the light shortly after as Britpop; on an aesthetic level, we go from the baggy clothes of kids in need of a shower to a more adult and more English look, with suits, Fred Perry and Dr Martens – clearly inspired by mod and skinhead subcultures. The prevailing atmosphere is one of determination, cynicism and arrogance.

The concerts become increasingly dynamic and deranged, with the first performances of the songs that will later make up Modern Life Is Rubbish: Damon jumps, climbs, rolls, slaps himself, grimaces and squirms while the others begin to occupy the stage with greater confidence. The energy reaches its peak at Glastonbury Festival, when during Day Upon Day Albarn throws himself at a giant amplifier that falls on him, almost breaking his foot. Meanwhile, popularity grows and alcohol flows freely: two ecstatic girls admit to follow them everywhere, a pissed Graham Coxon expresses questionable opinions on PJ Harvey, Damon Albarn is caught in the act while asking Ifan if he can have a few more beers before going on stage and the band entertains themselves with a very off-key a capella version of When Will We Be Married while traveling on the tour bus. But beyond the prevailing recklessness, Blur also indulged in calmer activities, as well as exploring the more popular aspects of British culture – something that would form a central theme in their subsequent production: lake swimming, breaks in service stations, mini markets and arcades (if you can’t get the Postman Pat jingle out of your head you have my full sympathy), trips to Stonehenge and lunches in dingy cafes serving cheap family meal deals.

The first chords of For Tomorrow open the third and final part of Starshaped: it’s July 1993, we’re at the Heineken Festival and Blur perform in front of a totally adoring audience the first track of Modern Life Is Rubbish, their second album that came out in May of the same year. The song is a hymn to resistance against the greyness of life and a celebration of their beloved London: the war against grunge and the Americanisation of Britain and Europe has officially begun.

Some of the questions that the documentary possibly raises are: in the midst of all this chaos, these beers and this aversion to Nirvana, where are Blur headed? Will this ambitious renaissance of British music work? We, viewers of 2023, already know how it went, but at that time it was a question full of risks and unknowns. Perhaps, the answer to these concerns lies precisely in the ending of Starshaped: Blur walk adorably holding hands on the same road on which they ran with so much enthusiasm at the beginning, united like brothers who watch each other’s backs and directed towards the new mission that awaits them; in the background, the sounds of traffic and the voice of the shipping forecast. After 58 minutes of pure madness, one cannot help but be moved by the beauty of this simple image: already in 1993, it was enough to understand that those four guys were destined for great things.

Books and music: “A Riot of Our Own” by Johnny Green (& Garry Barker)

by Agnese Alstrian

Every great story has a character who stands in the background, undisturbed, observing and recording everything that happens, and when that character decides to tell what they experienced they always do us a big favour. In the music world, in particular, it’s often that group of collaborators and technicians, usually silent and faithful to their duty, who pass on the most precious anecdotes.

Johnny Green spent three years of his life working as a road manager for The Clash, and in that busy time he saw all kinds of stuff. On the other hand, defining him as a simple roadie is an understatement to say the least, since his role was soon enriched with the tasks of: personal driver, negotiator with the outside world, human alarm clock, preparer of breakfast and spliffs (often simultaneously), washerman, technical supervisor and, above all, confidant. Immediately in tune with the group in 1977, first as a simple fan, Green then found himself managing the crisis between The Clash and the manager Bernie Rhodes (resulting in the latter’s sacking), becoming – together with trusted colleague The Baker – their lifeline, both in terms of organization and moral support. Years later, Johnny will decide to collect his memories in a book, A Riot of Our Own, published for the first time in 1997 and which has now become one of the most loved texts on the history of The Clash.

It all begins with the story of an “emergency” gig at Russork Festival in Finland in 1979, with Johnny who risks being killed by an amplifier short circuit and The Clash – full of debts at the time – who refuse to go on stage until they’re sure of receiving their payment: from here begins a daring journey, from meeting The Clash and their first rowdy punk concerts, to the success, the incessant rehearsals and endless tours of the period between 1978 and 1979, until to Green’s final days with the band. The most recent edition also includes a long and intense afterword set about twenty years after the events narrated, between the late 90s and early 2000s: the boys have grown up, they’ve become wiser and have each taken different paths; they have discovered the pleasure of reunions, rejoice in the achievements of others and receive well-deserved recognitions, but unfortunately they also have to deal with the ghosts of the past and the pain of the untimely loss of Joe Strummer.

From the very first pages, the spirit of the narration is clear: unbridled, comical and irreverent, but not for this reason unreliable – on the contrary, Johnny remembers the places and people of his stories very well; the tones often appear cynical and detached – very English – but in reality what is perceived is a deep affection and sincerity that only someone who has spent days and nights sharing narrow spaces with the protagonists can feel. In fact, Green’s book has the advantage, thanks to its privileged position, of scratching the mythologizing surface of the typical rock ‘n’ roll tale to bring out the inner natures and private habits of the four Clash, very different from each other yet complementary: the plastic bags instead of suitcases, the generosity and insecurity of Joe Strummer, who spent long journeys on the tour bus with his nose in his books and chatting (in whispers, so as not to strain his voice) about anything with anyone; the chronic latecomer syndrome, the aversion to cheese and the determination of Mick Jones, who despite his aspirations of lascivious celebrity didn’t deny his grandma to attend concerts from backstage; the perseverance, the aesthetic predilection and the tireless mischief of Paul Simonon, whose boundless repertoire of jokes and more or less dangerous pranks often saved from boredom and tension; the simplicity, the musical discipline and the football talent of Topper Headon, who loved to have a drink in company as much as he hated getting on a plane.

From this portrait from the inside, without filters and embellishments, The Clash come out with dignity. Green is not interested in building a glamorous story in “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” style, but rather wants to highlight what made that band truly great: the deep esteem and sense of protection that bound the members of the group as if they were brothers, and their innate ability to attract and welcome outsiders. Johnny doesn’t make concessions to anyone: he recounts both the good times and the difficult ones, the less bearable sides of his adventure companions and the glimmers of unforgettable heroism, revealing the humanity, fragility and naive goodness of four twenty-somethings that were damn good in their job, but that sometimes just wanted to get drunk and sleep a few more hours – as it should’ve been. In particular, the anecdotes about The Clash’s famous devotion to their fans stand out: the sharing of food and hotel rooms, the post-show backstage chats, the football matches on the playground in front of the studio, and the possibility to attend gigs for free for those who couldn’t afford it; a deep gratitude to their followers that often resulted in deliberate acts of disobedience – such as Paul and Joe’s eccentric protest, who stripped outside in the cold to force their reluctant driver to give a lift to some kids. The band drew creative energy from contact with ordinary people, and when this need collided with the impositions and logics of the record company, frustration and quarrels were inevitable: but, as Green points out, The Clash always did their best to put music and human relationships first, at the cost of coming across as overbearing and subversive.

Life on the road and days in the studio were what brought out the true essence of the band who, to tabloid punk sensationalism and the self-destructive fury of their colleagues – first of all, the Sex Pistols – much preferred to challenge themselves artistically and be surrounded by nice people: on each tour the bus filled up with roadies, support acts, photographers, girlfriends and friends with family in tow, which was always a nightmare for the CBS accountants who had to make ends meet. It’s precisely the travel experiences that amuse and fascinate the most: with their load of alien landscapes, euphoria, sweat, accidents and breakdowns they transmit – along with the surreal drawings by Ray Lowry (illustrator of NME enlisted by The Clash in the 1979 American tour, as well as responsible for the London Calling graphics) that enrich the pages – an exuberant, seedy atmosphere a la Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. All thanks to Green’s writing, that with its frankness and simplicity involves us in the story making us experience it from behind the scenes, as if we had been there too.

Mick Jones and Johnny Green in a scene of “Rude Boy”

At this point, I can’t not talk about the author who, as you’ll have understood, is a very lucky man: it doesn’t happen every day to become one of the closest collaborators of a band you admire, and to see it grow and work day after day until to achieve success. One of the underlying themes of A Riot of Our Own is that when you experience things to the fullest you never really realise their extent. While The Clash were recording London Calling with Guy Stevens, Johnny spent most of his time glued to the wall phone in the corridor of Wessex Studios: the band had the time of their lives recording, while Green was desperately trying to book gigs to scrape together the money necessary for their survival. Music history was being made in those recording rooms, and the characters involved were: a particularly inspired broke group, a perpetually drunk producer and a proud road manager, although on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Johnny Green’s commitment to keeping The Clash afloat was purely out of passion (“I had never been in it for the money – what money?”), and despite the hardships of the time, he always proved he could get by in every situation, especially in the most confusing ones: by his own admission, Green is a guy who excels in the midst of chaos. Every opportunity for revelry that presented to him, he grabbed it: he loved alcohol and rarely refused it, he risked his life several times (and often, needless to say, Simonon was involved), he had a good time with women, travelled the length and breadth of UK motorways, flew from one continent to another and showed up at the Berlin premiere of the docu-film Rude Boy to enjoy the applause and his face on the big screen (when the band, on the contrary, decided to desert). Of course there were the everyday chores too, like waking Jones up at 2pm and making sure the group always had clean clothes and towels. But when Green realised that The Clash were becoming a well-oiled machine, with fewer and fewer challenges and setbacks, he accepted that his mission was accomplished and that he had to make a change in his life: he decided to move to the United States to work with country singer Joe Ely, and when he told the band, the response he received was a simple: “If it don’t work out, come back – always.”

Johnny Green and The Baker (photo courtesy The Baker)

A Riot of Our Own is, essentially, a family story: of deep ties that will never be broken, of experiences that it’s impossible to forget and of safe places you know you can go back to. Especially when that family is The Clash – a band that was passionate, genuine, stubborn and always running out of socks.

Johnny Green with Mick Jones, Paul Simonon and Joe Strummer while reading the first edition of “A Riot of Our Own”

Joe Strummer, an absurd hero

by Agnese Alstrian

French writer and philosopher Albert Camus gave a definition to the contradiction between the man – who seeks meaning in his life and in the world – and the world itself – which is chaotic, destructive and basically has no meaning – through the concept of the Absurd: a profound gap, which generates fear and confusion and, in some cases, can even lead to death. In the book The myth of Sisyphus, Camus outlined two possible “ways out” from this disorientation: the first, suicide, is discouraged and criticised by the author as it’s the clear victory of the universe’s nihilism over the man, while the second one – the one to be preferred – is the pure acceptance of the Absurd and its infinite sea of possibilities. In this context, those who manage to create beauty in such a hostile and brutal world carry out a rebellion, because they demonstrate that they haven’t allowed it to be an obstacle to their existence: even those who are simply content with living, without showing off grand artistic gestures, can be considered a little hero. More than forty years after the publication of that book, a world-famous English musician was faced with the search for a new meaning to give to his life after the band that had consecrated him to success and to which he dedicated every creative effort had dissolved after six intense years: Joe Strummer was clashing with the Absurd.

Joining The Clash in 1976 represented year zero for him: starting a new life as a punk required a series of radical changes, first of all to renounce his pseudonym, his friends and his life up to that moment, and to leave everything in the past. The romantic and carefree hippie Woody Mellor suddenly ceased to exist and, in his place, a new character was born – serious, intimidating and so proud of strumming all six strings at the same time that he turned this technical limitation into his new name. Even his way of writing changed: definitively set aside the songs about girlfriends and the crazy bohemian life in the squats, Joe turned his gaze to the life in London, English politics and the world. “Write about the things that affect you”, was the advice that made him change his perspective.

Joe always demonstrated a lively and outgoing personality, as well as having a particular fondness for human relationships; the new way of writing not only gave a definite direction to his creative urge, but above all it allowed him to connect with people, change their lives and make sense of his own. The Clash’s lyrics spoke of racism, violence, unemployment, social inequalities and current events and reached the ears and hearts of listeners like no other punk band had managed to do. Joe Strummer soon became an icon for millions of kids who shaped their moral and political conscience thanks to his songs: the hippy movement had failed and nobody wanted to hear utopian songs inspired by rivers of drugs anymore; in 1977 young people wanted to have recognised the squalor, anger and diversity of their lives and to be encouraged to solidarity in a lucid and integral way. Mainly thanks to this strong communication ability, of all the groups in the punk scene, The Clash will be the one with the most noble and lasting legacy.

The years between 1976 and 1982 were unbridled and musically revolutionary: the band evolved into ever better and more complex forms – challenging the limits of punk to mix it with different genres, creating new sounds – without ever straying from the original ethics and intentions. But, like all flames that burn intensely, The Clash were destined to extinguish quickly too: their dissolution left a void that couldn’t be filled, not only in the musical scene but also in the lives of its members. Compared to his bandmates, Strummer was probably the one who suffered the most at the end of that adventure: not only was it partly his fault, but his identity was inextricably linked to a group that – he knew very well – would never return.

Unlike some musicians who don’t think twice about burying the hatchet and collecting the check at the first opportunity to reunite, throughout the rest of the 80s Joe Strummer desperately tried to free himself from the weight of his past in The Clash to establish himself as an independent musician. The band that made him a living legend was suddenly gone, but Joe refused to look back, despite the incomprehension of some fans and colleagues who instead clamoured for the return of The Clash. Those years weren’t easy at all: on one hand, he dedicated himself to making some soundtracks, made a solo album that went fairly unnoticed, put together some groups destined to break up after a few days and even dabbled as an actor in a couple of films; on the other one, the death of his parents and the birth of his daughters had shaken the (already delicate) balance of his private life. Without a band, orphan and with a new family to devote himself to, Joe tried with all his energies not to give up, despite the numerous failures and the spectres of depression and alcoholism to make things even more complicated for him.

Something in Strummer undoubtedly changed: he was struggling to be the open and instinctive person he always was, and there was something that didn’t allow him to connect with the world around him. Joe’s talent lay in being able to sniff out the novelty and potential of something before it was even recognised: when he understood that punk was the future at a concert by then-unknown Sex Pistols in 1976, the breaking down of the barriers between musical genres and the import of rap from the USA to Europe that consecrated The Clash to success – all intuitions that were his fortune. Furthermore, his creativity was fuelled by what was happening outside and meetings with people and artists, travels around the world and close relationships with fans were an inexhaustible resource for him. Now instead he insisted – perhaps involuntarily – on a pragmatism and an introspection that didn’t belong to him, and which for this reason were a source of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

Looking at Strummer’s complex situation in those years, we can’t help but admire a certain stoicism which Camus would’ve certainly appreciated. Joe was aware of the sadness of the circumstances but nevertheless he went ahead, straight on his way: the end of The Clash abandoned him in a total disorientation depriving him of a meaning to his life, but he immediately worked to make another one; it didn’t matter how unnoticed his projects went, it didn’t matter how many groups he formed and unmade in a short time, what mattered was to create, have as many experiences as possible and live life to the fullest, including its darkest moments. The call to the arts was too strong to be ignored, and his famous stubbornness will finally be rewarded: the 90s were a rebirth for Joe, who found a balance in his life and made peace again with the world. His magical intuition returned stronger than ever, and his ears were open to lots of new things that gave life back to his work: techno, new alternative rock, world music, raves, festivals, bonfires; he reconnected with old friends, made new ones and surrounded himself with musicians who instilled in him the confidence to embark on an exciting and promising adventure with a new group – the Mescaleros. Everything was flowing for the best and the much-deserved happy ending was finally coming true, except that – as Camus reminds us – the universe is a brutal and insensitive place, where misfortunes strike with frightening randomness.

This year marks 20 years since the passing of Joe Strummer, and on this day family, friends and fans will each honour his life in their own way. Obviously there will be those narratives, always present, which tend to sanctify artists, putting them on a pedestal and transforming them into immaculate icons – but everyone is free to tell themselves the stories they want. Instead, in my small way, this time I want to remember the dark period of Strummer’s career (and the irrepressible joy of his last years), because it’s true that Joe gave us a lot with his music and his words, but perhaps the greatest teachings are to be found in those moments of his incredible life when nothing seemed to have any value.

“I don’t have any message except: don’t forget you’re alive. Cause sometimes when you walk around the city or when you hear yourself in a bad mood you can think: ‘Hey, wait a minute! We’re alive!’, you know, we don’t know what the next second will bring. This is the greatest thing.” – Joe Strummer

Let’s talk about… Post Nebbia

by Agnese Alstrian

Summer 2021. Heat, a lot of heat, holidays around Italy, first post-driving license motorised adventures, outdoor concerts, ice creams, chats on the balcony, old and new friends, improvised dances, sea, crochet and quarrels with a mind in need of maintenance; all these events had something in common: Post Nebbia as a soundtrack. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been so passionate about an Italian band, surprising myself to listen to their albums over and over again and to have some songs on loop in mind for days – or even weeks, or months. Okay, I admit I haven’t gotten out of Televendite di quadri’s tunnel yet, but sometimes you just have to accept that there are literally hypnotic songs, and that surrendering to their magnetic charm isn’t too bad. All thanks (and fault) to the same friend who converted me to Idles.

Post Nebbia were born in Padua from the fervent mind of the young Carlo Corbellini, a project in which he plays a primary role in basically all creative phases, from writing to execution and production. In 2018 they made their debut with the album Prima Stagione, winning a place in the most hidden meanderings of the Italian indie scene, causing a lot of curiosity. In this first discographic attempt – which, as sometimes happens in underground circles, has a bit of the taste of an experiment whose outcome cannot be predicted – a certain stylistic maturity is already felt, as well as those that will assert themselves as the recurring themes of the imagery of Post Nebbia: introspection, flows of consciousness, social and media observation, interest in iconography and pop culture, aesthetics and atmospheres bounded to their territory.

Then came 2020 and all that went with it. Towards the end of that unfortunate year, the Paduan band released their second album, the highly acclaimed Canale Paesaggi. Post Nebbia are still relatively early in their career, but they’ve already achieved what many fans agree in considering their masterpiece: within two years, the sounds and tastes of the first album have been thoroughly deepened and refined and the lyrics are able to convey Carlo’s thoughts and messages with absolute clarity and consistency. In this album, Corbellini tackles the themes of alienation, media engulfment, voyeurism and control, just to name a few; he expresses confusion, skepticism, fascination, disgust and submissiveness in the face of the kaleidoscope of images and voices to which we are constantly exposed, often without even realising it. Musically, Canale Paesaggi is an out-of-the-ordinary auditory experience: Post Nebbia open up to the crazy postmodern game of quotes and unexpected appearances, mixing magnetic riffs of keyboards and guitars, electronic sounds and a distracted and relaxed singing with bizarre extracts from the lowest programs of private TV channels and distorted recordings of prayers, mixing in a hypnotic and disturbing vortex.

Two years later and with a new line-up, Post Nebbia are back with Entropia Padrepio, released in May of this year. With this record, which maintains the experimental sounds of previous works, Corbellini explores new themes, this time away from luminous screens and cathode ray tube TVs: spirituality, Catholicism, rites of passage and universal chaos are among the themes addressed in the new album; he wonders about people’s intangible needs, what drives them to seek specific answers and sometimes to be satisfied that such answers don’t exist. It’s certainly a record pervaded by a wisdom and introspection never experienced before, it has an aura of sacredness but it’s not focused on religion: rather, it uses this theme to express a desire for community in a tirelessly individualistic era.

Post Nebbia are now fully considered among the most important groups of the Italian indie scene: in their works they have shown great capacity for experimentation, as well as authenticity and intelligence, always remaining faithful to themselves and to what they’re really passionate about. If you haven’t done it yet, give them a listen – you won’t regret it.

Let’s talk about… Muffintops

by Agnese Alstrian

After our interview, done in November last year, Muffintops have continued to work tirelessly.

Back then, their discography had just been enriched with a third single – Edelweiss -, and a new song was being produced, the first recorded in a professional studio (as they wrote to me full of excitement earlier this year): that song will be called Not A Girl and will be described by the band as “our official coming-out as non-binary”. What makes this single so special is not only the personal and liberating message that underlies it, but above all its appearance on the album Poland Has A Task (a charity initiative in favour of women and the LGBT+ community in Poland that we talked about in March in an interview with its creator Ola Poroslo). With this small but significant contribution, Muffintops make their presence felt within the small independent scene of Bristol, made up of artists who want to make music and art for the simple pleasure of spreading beauty and fun, in an environment that encourages collaboration and free creativity.

Muffintops’ latest single, released on June 25th, is the embodiment of all this. Runaway is a hymn to independence, which can be a double-edged sword: Ella’s sweet and enveloping voice tells us of the incessant search for our own place in the world (“a place that I could call my own“), something that on one hand can be adventurous and liberating, but on the other it can bring us oppression and anguish. Elie beats the rhythm with a dry and marked drums, the solid backbone on which the whole song is based, but this time the band does something more: Ella and Elie’s instruments are not the only ones to appear, there is also the special contribution of violins and trumpets that excellently emphasise the emotions while listening. Furthermore, the duo got the help of friends that work as videomakers and photographers to create a beautiful videoclip accompanying the single, in which the two members of the group perform the song in many different locations, behind the frame of a window that symbolises the house that’s looked for.

Unity is strength, and there is no better thing than music to prove it.

Let’s talk about… Try Me

by Agnese Alstrian

Within Bristol’s small independent scene, a duo called Try Me releases one hit after another. The project, composed by Bendy Wendy and Hector Boogieman, with its music has created a DIY, lively and colourful universe, open to anyone who wants to “just want to have a good time” (as they sing in one of their most loved songs, Good Time Goggles).

Musically, Try Me define themselves disco-punk: dance and electronic backing tracks and simple melodies that remain carved in your head, impossible not to dance to. The punk attitude directs them towards precise aesthetic and lyrical choices: Try Me are multi-coloured, ambiguous and restless; they play with genres and appearances, sing with lightness and wit, alternating voices with perfect synchrony, often focusing on bizarre and out-of-the-ordinary stories. This is the case of their new single, Heavy Lunch (released on April 24th): the song (accompanied by a funny video clip self-produced by the group) tells of a pig-boy who eats so much that he gives birth to a food baby; the chorus is a stream of consciousness of food, in which the pig-boy, left alone with his own culinary fantasies, lists all the delicacies he’d like to have in his stomach.

In conclusion, seeing is believing: in the world of Try Me anything can come to life and turn into something extravagant, hilarious and never banal. You won’t be disappointed.

Let’s talk about… Lynks

by Agnese Alstrian

In the literary universe of Pirandello (a 20^th century Sicilian playwright and writer), masks are the multiple identities that we can (and, in a certain sense, must) assume according to the contexts in which we find ourselves, they’re the appearances behind which we hide our “true being”. If on one hand these masks are false, dishonest, concealing, on the other they give infinite freedom: behind them, we can be whoever we want.

Lynks is certainly a character that doesn’t go unnoticed: colourful hand-sewn outfits, balaclavas with horns or ponytails, sandals with socks, red and black lipstick, heavy eyeshadow, glitter and fringes as if they’re raining; defined by his creator Elliot Brett as “a mask” created above all to have fun, he’s a concentrate of all that’s flashy and bizarre, ready to explode at any moment.

Originally from Bristol and becoming hugely popular in London, Lynks has left his mark with performances that are pure entertainment, a perfect mix of electronic music, choreography and comedy: irony and conciseness are the founding elements of his songs, in which elementary but captivating electronic beats make as a backdrop to cutting edge social observations and tales of the queer world. His debut is from last summer (July 2020 to be precise) with the EP Smash Hits, Vol. 1, while its sequel Smash Hits, Vol. 2 is from January 2021. In both Lynks unleashes all his satire and – as explained in the titles – offers us a series of already timeless hits to dance on frantically. They tell about the nightlife in straight clubs from the point of view of a homosexual, of miserable and desperate loves, the perennial indecision and dissatisfaction and even the pandemic seen from Great Britain; frustration with the rules of society for achieving an elusive success is expressed, as well as a sharp criticism of beauty standards and the obsession with appearances nurtured by the internet, along with a good dose of ironic self-pity.

Lynks is only at the beginning but he already has clear ideas: giving life to this parallel identity (a “masked drag monster”, as defined by Elliot himself) has freed himself from the weight of his ordinary being, an easy target of judgments, leaving to someone else – a relentlessly exuberant and eccentric being – the task of offering the best dance hits to all the outcasts who want to hear them, protected by the freedom and infinite opportunities of the mask.

Let’s talk about… Black Country, New Road

by Agnese Alstrian

Describe Black Country, New Road in a simple and straightforward way? Impossible. Or at least, nothing clear and immediate comes to mind at the moment. After all, they’re not a band like all the others and listening to their music is not such a simple and obvious exercise: every attempt to find a logical sense, a unity that is not fragmented and in general to listen with the same spirit we have when we relate to any other kind of music we are used to is absolutely useless. After months of trying, I discovered that the key to appreciating their songs is not to put up with the slightest resistance: you have to let yourself go to the flow and enjoy the ride.

Black Country, New Road (yes, with the comma) formed in Cambridge in 2018, all just in their twenties and returning from a musical experience that ended relatively soon. The turning point comes when, in London, the band enters the good graces of the label Speedy Wunderground, which releases their first two singles Athens, France and Sunglasses: in their wake, the group slowly establishes themselves as one of the best live bands on the scene (becoming frequent frequenters, needless to say, also of the Brixton’s Windmill), making themselves known with gigs that sound like long jam sessions in which everything is allowed (even a fusion with Black Midi in that legendary creature known as Black Midi, New Road).

The band released their debut album on February 5th this year: For the first time is an itinerary that crosses all the uniqueness and oddities of Black Country, New Road’s sonic world. In just six tracks, all the incredible compositional talent of these seven kids is condensed, each of whom perfectly manages to make their personal contribution heard, resulting in a homogeneous mixture of sounds and genres. There’s klezmer music, free jazz, post-rock; passages in which the instruments come together in an equitable and fluid way and others in which they seem to collide with each other, all accompanied by feverish flows of consciousness praised by Isaac Wood with his deep voice, bizarre and apparently rambling texts that at times touch delirium and paranoia, however not without a markedly British ironic streak.

Black Country, New Road are undoubtedly one of the most surprising bands of the moment: they’re young, eclectic and dynamic, a real orchestra of the future that’s not afraid to experiment and put to music whatever they want, not giving a damn about the possibility of being misunderstood and sometimes even hated; a band that both live and on record emanates all the joy and excitement of playing together with companions that are first and foremost friends, and if it’s true that unity is strength, they’re now truly invincible – with or without sunglasses.