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.

Libri e musica: “Coal Black Mornings” di Brett Anderson

di Agnese Alstrian

Quando a 14 anni iniziai ad addentrarmi nella magica rete di musica e gossip del Britpop, i Suede erano uno dei gruppi che tendevo ad accantonare di più: nonostante facessero parte dei cosiddetti big four fondamentali assieme a Blur, Pulp e Oasis, per qualche motivo non mi attiravano granché. Non che li ignorassi del tutto – adoravo canzoni come Beautiful Ones e Animal Nitrate -, ma a distanza di anni credo che il mio scetticismo fosse dovuto principalmente al mio amore sconfinato per i Blur e all’influenza che su di me esercitavano tutti quei pettegolezzi che avevo assorbito sulla tensione romantica e le gelosie tra Brett Anderson, Justine Frischmann e Damon Albarn: nonostante la seconda avesse scaricato il primo per mettersi col terzo, per qualche meccanismo distorto del mio cervello adolescente, nella spettacolarmente infantile rivalità tra i due frontman, per me il cattivo era Brett. Poi sono cresciuta, ho imparato a indirizzare il mio astio verso il complesso di onnipotenza dei fratelli Gallagher, ho scoperto che Brett Anderson non era poi così antipatico come credevo e che i Suede erano davvero fighissimi. Che cosa mi ero persa…

I primi mesi di quest’anno li ho dedicati a recuperare parte della loro discografia, con un interesse alimentato dalla lettura di Lunch With The Wild Frontiers di Jane Savidge, l’addetta alle pubbliche relazioni che negli anni novanta – tra le tante cose – ha curato il modo in cui la stampa doveva parlare dei Suede, già definiti “migliore nuova band britannica” prima ancora di pubblicare qualsiasi singolo. I loro primi tre album in particolare sono diventati un’irrinunciabile colonna sonora, ho guardato il documentario The Insatiable Ones dividendolo in piccoli capitoli per evitare che finisse troppo presto, ho iniziato a commuovermi anch’io alla centesima visione del concerto alla Royal Albert Hall nel 2010 e ho creato una bacheca su pinterest esclusivamente dedicata a Brett Anderson che qualunque studente di moda potrebbe invidiarmi. (Una ricerca condotta con tale entusiasmo ha anche i suoi lati negativi, come il fatto che tutt’ora non c’è giorno che passi senza che il ritornello di The Drowners mi risuoni nel cervello totalmente senza preavviso, ma questi sono rischi inevitabili). Poi ho scoperto che Brett ha scritto non una, ma ben due autobiografie, e quella è stata la ciliegina sulla torta.

Il primo libro è Coal Black Mornings e ripercorre gli anni dall’infanzia agli esordi dei Suede – “prima che qualcuno sapesse o gliene importasse davvero” –, ma non si tratta della solita opera autocelebrativa: infatti, si tratta soprattutto di un regalo da parte di Anderson al figlio Lucian, un documento che un giorno lo aiuterà a capire meglio quali siano le sue radici e a conoscere davvero la giovinezza del padre; proprio per questo, Brett concentra le sue energie narrative sul ricordo di anni caratterizzati da fallimenti, ansie, lutti, ma anche dall’amore e dall’amicizia. La sua è stata un’infanzia segnata dalle continue difficoltà economiche e dalla rigida, a tratti disumana, educazione scolastica degli anni 70: descrive con dovizia di particolari la minuscola casa di Haywards Heath, gli arredi e i quadri alle pareti della madre artista, la tragicomica personalità del padre e i suoi mille lavori per mantenere la famiglia, il legame con la sorella maggiore, le cene a base di carne stopposa, gli spiccioli racimolati con i primi lavoretti deprimenti, l’umiliazione di sfilare davanti ai compagni di scuola in mensa in quanto fruitore di pasti gratuiti. In mezzo a questi ricordi di povertà emergono con particolare forza i racconti legati ai genitori, due personaggi imponenti e complessi con caratteri molto differenti: da un lato la madre Sandra, tenera, accogliente, apprensiva, amante della natura e con una creatività senza limiti; dall’altro il padre Peter, eccentrico, imprevedibile, paranoico, ossessionato dalla musica classica e che convinceva la famiglia a stiparsi nella traballante Morris Traveller in pellegrinaggio estivo in Austria nei luoghi di Franz Liszt. Brett ritrae questi quadretti di vita familiare con affetto e riconoscenza, ma anche con un certo distacco che gli permette – nei momenti di autoanalisi – di identificare le radici di alcuni suoi tratti caratteriali e abitudini. Tra i temi centrali vi sono il rapporto padre-figlio e i traumi generazionali: colpiscono la compassione e la maturità con cui Anderson racconta e accetta la figura paterna, riconoscendo a distanza di anni che molti suoi lati problematici erano fondamentalmente il risultato di un’infanzia anaffettiva e violenta con un genitore alcolizzato, e che Peter cercò con i pochi mezzi (e i pessimi esempi) a propria disposizione di fare in modo che i figli non dovessero crescere nella paura.

Il look austero dei Suede mi ha sempre ingannata, facendomi pensare che fossero una band snob e sofisticata di agiata estrazione borghese; ma leggendo Coal Black Mornings ho dovuto decostruire questa impressione così radicata nella mia mente. Come spesso accade, la noia e l’alienazione della periferia costituiscono terreno fertile per gli spiriti creativi, e Brett Anderson non si è certamente tirato indietro quando si è trattato di uscire dalla sua condizione di isolamento: la scoperta del punk – in particolare i Sex Pistols – ha rappresentato il primo barlume di speranza, una forza dirompente che spingerà Brett verso l’ambizione di fare musica e soprattutto fuori dai confini asfissianti di Haywards Heath. Procedendo nella lettura, Anderson ci guida in un ipotetico percorso tra i testi che andranno a comporre l’album di debutto dei Suede, fortemente ispirati dai cambiamenti, dai traumi e dalle esperienze di questo periodo di transizione: sono brani che parlano di emarginazione, di disoccupazione, di sessualità, di trasgressione, di rabbia, di dolore e di perdita. Ogni traccia è legata ad un preciso aneddoto, dimostrando quanto sia innata in Brett la capacità di osservare e raccontare la vita in tutti i suoi aspetti più inusuali, introspettivi e marginali.

Nel trasferimento dalla periferia a Londra, la storia si arricchisce di nuovi personaggi: tra questi, oltre ai futuri compagni di band Mat Osman, Simon Gilbert e Bernard Butler, centrale è la figura di Justine Frischmann – elegante, intelligente, affascinante e il primo amore di Anderson. La loro sarà una relazione breve ma intensa, due persone socialmente agli opposti ma con un’intesa fortissima che sarà fonte di un’inarrestabile foga artistica; eppure la loro (triste) rottura, paradossalmente, darà ai Suede la spinta definitiva di cui avevano bisogno per definire la propria identità e sfondare.

La storia si chiude nel momento in cui la band firma il suo primo contratto. Brett delinea magistralmente questo senso di sospensione, di eccitazione e di speranza: riusciamo a immaginarceli benissimo questi quattro ragazzi, il loro pallore esaltato dal sole invernale fuori dall’ufficio discografico, euforici e anche un po’ confusi. Li attendono anni difficili ma loro ancora non lo sanno, perché ciò che conta è che quell’imbarazzante “spazio a forma di D” davanti al palco non sia più vuoto. Finalmente, è tempo di lasciarsi alle spalle le mattine nere come il carbone.

Earworm #5: 2023 (ENG)

by Agnese Alstrian

When the latest shiny new edition of spotify wrapped came out in November, I already knew what to expect: The Clash and Blur in the lead, and a few sprinklings of reggae and two-tone. By persisting with the free version, I couldn’t help but notice that my daily habits change the way I use this app: in 2020 (when I started using it), with all the time in the world locked in my house for several months, I listened to endless albums on the computer, especially the new releases; in the following years, the dynamism of post-pandemic life encouraged the creation of playlists with mixed songs, both old and recent, to play in the background while I walk, drive or do anything else (using exclusively the shuffle that I’ve learned to appreciate over time) . But I realise that an automated ranking, based on data and algorithms, cannot fully represent my true sound of the year: so, for this episode of Earworm, I have chosen 10 songs that best summarise the memories and the emotions of my 2023.

Shame, Fingers of Steel

Shame’s music has been the soundtrack to many beautiful moments of the last five years: the last one dates back to March, when I went to Milan with my friend Sofia to see them live – a month after the release of their third album Food for Worms. What will I never forget about the whole evening? Singer Charlie Steen who at some point grabs mine out of all the hands outstretched towards him, and immediately afterwards Sofia and I look at each other and scream as happy and carefree as two little girls on a merry-go-round.

The Slits, Typical Girls

If one day I ever find myself in the presence of Viv Albertine – or if I somehow manage to get in touch with her with the powerful means at our disposal today – I would, first of all, thank her for writing Clothes Music Boys. If there’s one thing I can say about this book it’s that it’s not just any autobiography, no sir: reading it is like listening to a friend. From how she tells you about her life, it seems like she lived 10 different ones, because Viv was not only the iconic guitarist of The Slits, but also a fashion student (even if only briefly), a filmmaker, a television director, an ordinary housewife, a mother and then a musician again. She saw punk born right before her eyes: Sid Vicious was her best friend, Vivienne Westwood gave her clothes, she shared a squat with Paul Simonon and she was the girlfriend of Mick Jones – a gangly guy from art school who accompanied her to buy her first guitar; Keith Levine taught her the first chords, but after Viv’s initial breakthrough she did everything on her own, spending entire days in her room experimenting tirelessly in search of the strangest and most annoying sound she could achieve. Then the meeting with The Slits, led by the anarchic energy of Ari Up, who was 14 years old and already a frontwoman: Viv’s entry into the group counterbalanced the internal dynamics and provided a more mature point of reference – a figure who, as much as possible, could protect young Ari both from the public and from herself.

The only two albums released by the band are proof that a genuine punk attitude can allow you to do anything from fast angry songs to Caribbean experimentations and long digressions full of ambient sounds and distortions. Each of their songs is a little gem to be appreciated in all its uniqueness, but Typical Girls is their undisputed anthem: if in the last 46 years girls have decided to play the guitar, experimented with clothing and generally done whatever the hell they wanted, we probably owe it to The Slits.

Big Girl’s Blouse, I’m Scared of Men

Unfortunately, this year too has wasted no time in reminding us how hostile the world is to certain categories of people. From the rape that occurred in Palermo this summer to the murder of Giulia Cecchettin, there have been several occasions in which my girl-friends and I found ourselves venting and reflecting on how we feel when faced with such news. When you understand that a very large part of the male population, for reasons deeply rooted in culture and society, doesn’t see you as a person with dignity but, instead, considers you an object, a threat to their privilege, a freak of nature, a waste of space, a subhuman waste… then you can’t help but feel fear, disgust, anger. And, frankly, hate too. Because no man will ever truly understand what it feels like to live with the constant thought that you could be the next one.

Hole, Doll Parts

I was arranging the narrative section of the charity shop I work at when I found yet another intruder on the shelf left there by a distracted customer. Usually I would have snorted, complaining about the lack of a sense of order in people as I carry the orphan back to the right shelf, but this book captures my attention more than the others: it’s the biography of Courtney Love. I know her, I know Hole, I know how she’s probably the most loved/hated figure in the entire music industry, but for some reason I’ve never delved into her story or her music. I decide that that book will come home with me.

Combining reading with listening to Pretty On The Inside and Live Through This was perhaps one of the most formative experiences of this year. To understand someone’s character and actions you have to delve into their life and, in the case of an artist, listen to what they have to say: when you find yourself with a mix of neglectful parents, low self-esteem, a self-destructive personality and a tendency in addiction you certainly can’t expect a serene and balanced person to come out of all this, and Courtney has never self-censored when it came to expressing in her lyrics the anger, confusion and pain she felt, at the risk of appearing brutal and disturbing. Although she may be a controversial, at times unpleasant, figure, I consider her a great inspiration: not only did she talk about the female experience in all its complexity, but she never gave up in the face of the tragedies of her life, nor did she ever sacrifice her own authenticity to please others. A musician constantly demonised for the same excesses for which her male colleagues are glorified (including her husband Kurt Cobain), a woman always the target of criticism, insults and absurd conspiracy theories, who despite everything has never compromised and who has always stayed true to herself.

HMLTD, The End Is Now

They’ve been long in coming but, as was to be expected, it was worth it. In April – three years after that bolt from the blue that was West of Eden – HMLTD released their second, very audacious album: a grandiose theatrical work inspired by the fantasy of a hellish medieval England swallowed by a giant worm; a mix between The Canterbury Tales, the apocalyptic threats of our time and the irreverent punk spirit of HMLTD. So much for the difficult second album.

Blur, The Narcissist

When I was in high school, there was rarely a day that went by without listening to Blur. They kept me company during drawing hours, lunch breaks, on the stairs from one classroom to another, but above all during the journey home: while waiting for the train, I sat on the bench and let the songs flow, wondering to myself if I would ever see them live one day.

Some time later I’m 22 years old and I’m on my way home from work. We’re in the middle of spring but it’s raining and it’s quite cold. I sit on the same bench, in the same station, waiting for the same train that years before took me home from school. A few weeks ago Blur released a new single: I listen to it thinking about how some things change, while others always remain the same. I also think of the ticket from their July concert in Lucca, jealously kept in the drawer of my bedside table.

Galen Ayers & Paul Simonon, Lonely Town

Just when I was starting to believe that, having concluded the The Good, The Bad & The Queen chapter, Paul Simonon had definitively put down his bass to get back to painting full time, a new, unexpected project was announced: Can We Do Tomorrow Another Day?, an album made in collaboration with singer-songwriter Galen Ayers. The album promises to be a gem from the moment you listen to the first single, Lonely Town – a short but brilliant song, imbued with the same Mediterranean brightness that pervades the other tracks, and with simple and intelligent lyrics on the effects of summer tourism in small towns. The album immediately became one of my favourites released this year, first of all for the atmosphere of complicity and harmony that Galen and Paul managed to convey: in certain passages, rather than a series of songs, it seems like listening to a conversation between friends in a bar.

GUIDOBONI, PORNO

It’s always a party when a band I like comes to play in my city. Back in March, a week before the Shame concert, Sofia and I convinced a group of friends to join us to go see Post Nebbia, promising them that they would be amazed. Inside the semi-dark and cigarette-filled venue, the wait for the leading Italian indie group was interrupted by the arrival on stage of the support artist, a young man with an acoustic guitar and an Emilian accent. Having overcome the initial scepticism mixed with curiosity that accompanies listening to any support performance, our little group was very close to founding the Palermo branch of Guidoboni’s fanclub right then and there, won over by his genuine enthusiasm and the catchiness of his choruses which at the end of the evening we already knew by heart. Precisely that day – he explained to us – his second single was released: a nostalgic ballad, biting and delicate at the same time, with that irresistible na na na’s to shout until your neighbours in the audience begin to hate you.

Grian Chatten, Salt Throwers off a Truck

Grian Chatten is the greatest singer-songwriter of this decade, and no one will be able to convince me otherwise: he has amply demonstrated it with Fontaines D.C. and he confirmed it with his first solo work. In Chaos for the Fly, Grian breaks away from the post-punk genre with which he rose to prominence to experiment with something different: it’s an album that is at times minimal and unusual, but which still manages to give a sense of familiarity in certain tracks. One of these is Salt Throwers off a Truck, in my opinion the song with the most beautiful lyrics on the entire album, in which Grian demonstrates that he has fully learned the lessons of the great Irish authors – first and foremost Shane MacGowan: a ballad featuring only acoustic guitar and voice, which celebrates the city – any snow-covered city in the world – and its characters with elegant irony and a veil of bitterness.

The Pogues, A Rainy Night In Soho

Shane MacGowan hated funerals. He tried to avoid them as much as possible and it’s easy to imagine that, when his time came, the last thing he wanted for himself was a gloomy and weepy ceremony. The last farewell to Shane was held on December 8^th, and the photographs and videos circulating since that day make us think that few tears of pain were shed: the procession around Dublin, the mass in the small church of county Tipperary (where he spent his childhood), the priest who during the homily shares his memories of being a punk teenager, quotes Shane’s verses and pays homage to Sinéad O’Connor (who would have had her birthday that day), the altar that becomes a stage on which friends alternate – including Johnny Depp and Nick Cave, who sings a goosebump-inducing version of A Rainy Night In Soho on the piano -, The Pogues reuniting for the last time and the participants dancing to their songs, while Irish President Michael D. Higgins placidly enjoys the show; and the celebration that spreads from the church to the streets, where groups of people armed with guitars pay their personal homage. Here’s people who know how to celebrate their heroes. Sláinte!

Earworm #5: 2023 (ITA)

di Agnese Alstrian

Quando a Novembre è uscita l’ultimissima edizione nuova fiammante di spotify wrapped già sapevo cosa aspettarmi: Clash e Blur in testa, e qualche spolverata di reggae e two-tone. Persistendo con la versione gratuita, non ho potuto fare a meno di notare che le mie abitudini quotidiane cambiano il modo in cui usufruisco di questa applicazione: nel 2020 (quando iniziai a usarla), con tutto il tempo del mondo chiusa in casa per diversi mesi, ho ascoltato sul computer album a non finire, soprattutto le nuove uscite; negli anni successivi, il dinamismo della vita post pandemia ha incentivato la creazione di playlist con brani misti, sia vecchi che recenti, da mettere in sottofondo mentre cammino, guido o faccio altro (usufruendo esclusivamente della riproduzione casuale che col tempo ho imparato ad apprezzare). Ma mi rendo conto che una classifica creata in maniera automatizzata, sulla base di dati e algoritmi, non può rappresentare pienamente il mio vero suono dell’anno: quindi, per questo episodio di Earworm, ho scelto 10 canzoni che riassumono al meglio i ricordi e le emozioni del mio 2023.

Shame, Fingers of Steel

La musica degli Shame ha fatto da colonna sonora a tanti bei momenti degli ultimi cinque anni: l’ultimo risale a Marzo, quando andai a Milano con la mia amica Sofia per vederli dal vivo – un mese dopo l’uscita del loro terzo album Food for Worms. Cosa non dimenticherò mai di tutta la serata? Il cantante Charlie Steen che ad un certo punto tra tutte le mani tese verso di lui afferra la mia, e subito dopo Sofia e io che ci guardiamo e urliamo felici e spensierate come due bambine alle giostre.

The Slits, Typical Girls

Se un giorno dovessi mai trovarmi al cospetto di Viv Albertine – o se riuscissi in qualche modo a mettermi in contatto con lei con i potenti mezzi a nostra disposizione oggigiorno – innanzitutto la ringrazierei per aver scritto Vestiti Musica Ragazzi. Se c’è una cosa che posso dire su questo libro è che non è un’autobiografia qualunque, nossignori: leggerlo è come ascoltare un’amica. Da come ti racconta la sua vita, sembra che ne abbia vissute 10 diverse, perché Viv non è stata solo l’iconica chitarrista delle Slits, ma anche una studentessa di moda (anche se per poco), una filmmaker, una regista televisiva, un’ordinaria casalinga, una mamma e poi di nuovo una musicista. Ha visto il punk nascere proprio davanti ai suoi occhi: Sid Vicious era il suo migliore amico, Vivienne Westwood le regalava vestiti, divideva uno squat con Paul Simonon ed era la fidanzata di Mick Jones – un tipo allampanato della scuola d’arte che l’ha accompagnata a comprare la sua prima chitarra; Keith Levine le insegnò i primi accordi, ma dopo l’abbrivio iniziale Viv fece tutto da sola, passando giornate intere nella sua stanza sperimentando senza sosta alla ricerca del suono più strano e più fastidioso che riuscisse a ottenere. Poi l’incontro con le Slits, guidate dall’energia anarchica di Ari Up, che aveva 14 anni ed era già una frontwoman: l’ingresso di Viv nel gruppo controbilanciò le dinamiche interne e fornì un punto di riferimento più maturo – una figura che, per quanto possibile, potesse proteggere la giovane Ari sia dal pubblico che da sé stessa.

Gli unici due album pubblicati dalla band sono la prova che una genuina attitudine punk può permetterti di fare qualsiasi cosa, da velocissime canzoni arrabbiate a sperimentazioni caraibiche e lunghe digressioni piene di suoni ambientali e distorsioni. Ogni loro brano è un piccolo gioiello da apprezzare in tutta la sua unicità, ma Typical Girls è il loro inno indiscusso: se negli ultimi 46 anni le ragazze hanno deciso di suonare la chitarra, sperimentato con l’abbigliamento e in generale fatto il cavolo che volevano, probabilmente lo dobbiamo alle Slits.

Big Girl’s Blouse, I’m Scared of Men

Neanche quest’anno, purtroppo, ha perso tempo a ricordarci quanto il mondo sia ostile a determinate categorie di persone. Dallo stupro avvenuto a Palermo quest’estate all’omicidio di Giulia Cecchettin, diverse sono state le occasioni in cui io e le mie amiche ci siamo ritrovate a sfogarci e riflettere su come ci sentiamo davanti a notizie del genere. Quando capisci che una vastissima parte della popolazione maschile, per motivi profondamente radicati nella cultura e nella società, non ti vede come una persona con una dignità ma, invece, ti considera un oggetto, una minaccia al loro privilegio, uno scherzo della natura, uno spreco di spazio, uno scarto subumano… allora non puoi fare a meno di provare paura, disgusto, rabbia. E, francamente, anche odio. Perché nessun uomo capirà mai davvero cosa si provi a vivere col pensiero costante che la prossima potresti essere tu.

Hole, Doll Parts

Stavo sistemando la sezione narrativa del charity shop in cui lavoro quando sullo scaffale trovo l’ennesimo libro-intruso lasciato lì da un cliente distratto. Solitamente avrei sbuffato, lamentandomi dell’assenza di un senso dell’ordine nelle persone mentre riporto l’orfanello allo scaffale giusto, ma questo libro cattura la mia attenzione più degli altri: è la biografia di Courtney Love. Conosco lei, conosco le Hole, so quanto probabilmente sia la figura più amata/odiata di tutta l’industria musicale, ma per qualche motivo non ho mai approfondito la sua storia né la sua musica. Decido che quel libro verrà a casa con me.

Affiancare alla lettura l’ascolto di Pretty On The Inside e Live Through This è stata forse una delle esperienze più formative di quest’anno. Per capire il carattere e le azioni di qualcuno bisogna andare a fondo nella sua vita e, nel caso di un’artista, ascoltare quello che ha da dire: quando ti ritrovi un mix di genitori negligenti, bassa autostima, una personalità autodistruttiva e una tendenza alle dipendenze di certo non puoi aspettarti che da tutto questo esca una persona serena ed equilibrata, e Courtney non si è mai auto-censurata quando si trattava di esprimere nei suoi testi la rabbia, la confusione e il dolore che provava, a costo di risultare brutale e disturbante. Nonostante possa essere una figura controversa, a tratti sgradevole, io la considero di grande ispirazione: non solo ha raccontato l’esperienza femminile in tutta la sua complessità, ma non si è mai arresa davanti alle tragedie della sua vita, né ha mai sacrificato la propria autenticità per piacere agli altri. Una musicista costantemente demonizzata per gli stessi eccessi per cui i colleghi uomini vengono glorificati (tra questi, anche il marito Kurt Cobain), una donna sempre bersaglio di critiche, insulti e assurde teorie del complotto, che nonostante tutto non è mai scesa a compromessi ed è sempre rimasta fedele a sé stessa.

HMLTD, The End Is Now

Si sono fatti attendere ma, come c’era da aspettarsi, ne è valsa la pena. Ad Aprile – tre anni dopo quel fulmine a ciel sereno che è stato West of Eden – gli HMLTD hanno pubblicato il loro secondo, audacissimo album: una grandiosa opera teatrale ispirata dalla fantasia di un’infernale Inghilterra medievale inghiottita da un verme gigante; un misto tra I racconti di Canterbury, le minacce apocalittiche del nostro tempo e l’irriverente spirito punk degli HMLTD. Alla faccia del difficult second album.

Blur, The Narcissist

Quando andavo al liceo, raramente c’era un giorno che passasse senza che ascoltassi i Blur. Mi tenevano compagnia durante le ore di disegno, a pausa pranzo, per le scale da un’aula all’altra, ma soprattutto durante il tragitto al ritorno verso casa: in attesa del treno, mi sedevo sulla panchina e lasciavo scorrere le canzoni, chiedendomi tra me e me se mai un giorno li avrei visti dal vivo.

Un po’ di tempo dopo ho 22 anni e sto tornando a casa dal lavoro. Siamo in piena primavera ma piove e fa piuttosto freddo. Mi siedo sulla stessa panchina, nella stessa stazione, aspettando lo stesso treno che anni prima mi riportava a casa da scuola. Qualche settimana fa i Blur hanno pubblicato un nuovo singolo: lo ascolto pensando a come cambiano alcune cose, mentre altre restano sempre le stesse. Penso anche al biglietto del loro concerto di Luglio a Lucca, custodito gelosamente nel cassetto del mio comodino.

Galen Ayers & Paul Simonon, Lonely Town

Proprio quando stavo cominciando a credere che, concluso il capitolo The Good, The Bad & The Queen, Paul Simonon aveva definitivamente riposto il basso per tornare a dedicarsi alla pittura a tempo pieno, ecco che viene annunciato un nuovo, inaspettato progetto: Can We Do Tomorrow Another Day?, un album realizzato in collaborazione con la cantautrice Galen Ayers. Il disco promette di essere una chicca sin dall’ascolto del primo singolo, Lonely Town – un brano breve ma brillante, intriso della stessa luminosità mediterranea che pervade le altre tracce, e con un testo semplice e intelligente sugli effetti del turismo estivo nelle piccole città. L’album è diventato subito uno dei miei preferiti usciti quest’anno, innanzitutto per l’atmosfera di complicità e armonia che Galen e Paul sono riusciti a trasmettere: in certi passaggi, più che una serie di canzoni, sembra di ascoltare una conversazione tra amici in un bar.

GUIDOBONI, PORNO

È sempre festa quando una band che mi piace viene a suonare nella mia città. Tornando a Marzo, una settimana prima del concerto degli Shame, Sofia e io convincemmo un gruppetto di amici a unirsi a noi per andare a vedere i Post Nebbia, promettendo loro che ne sarebbero rimasti folgorati. Dentro al locale semibuio e impregnato di sigarette, l’attesa del gruppo di punta dell’indie italiano fu interrotta dall’arrivo sul palco dell’artista di supporto, un giovane con la chitarra acustica e l’accento emiliano. Superato l’iniziale scetticismo misto a curiosità che accompagna l’ascolto di qualsiasi performance-spalla, il nostro gruppetto fu molto vicino a fondare lì sul momento la succursale palermitana del fanclub di Guidoboni, conquistati dal suo genuino entusiasmo e dall’orecchiabilità dei suoi ritornelli che a fine serata sapevamo già a memoria. Proprio quel giorno – ci spiegava – usciva il suo secondo singolo: una ballata nostalgica, graffiante e delicata insieme, con quel na na na irresistibile da gridare fino a quando i tuoi vicini di platea non cominciano a odiarti.

Grian Chatten, Salt Throwers off a Truck

Grian Chatten è il più grande cantautore di questa decade, e nessuno riuscirà a convincermi del contrario: l’ha ampiamente dimostrato con i Fontaines D.C. e l’ha confermato col suo primo lavoro da solista. In Chaos for the Fly, Grian si stacca dal genere post-punk col quale è saltato alla ribalta per sperimentare con qualcosa di diverso: è un album a tratti minimale e insolito, ma che riesce comunque a dare un senso di familiarità in determinate tracce. Una di queste è Salt Throwers off a Truck, secondo me il brano col testo più bello di tutto il disco, in cui Grian dimostra di avere pienamente imparato la lezione dei grandi autori irlandesi – primo tra tutti Shane MacGowan: una ballata di sola chitarra acustica e voce, che celebra la città – qualsiasi città innevata del mondo – e i suoi personaggi con elegante ironia e un velo di amarezza.

The Pogues, A Rainy Night In Soho

Shane MacGowan odiava i funerali. Cercava di evitarli il più possibile ed è facile immaginare che, quando fosse giunto il suo momento, l’ultima cosa che volesse per sé fosse una cerimonia lugubre e piagnucolosa. L’ultimo saluto a Shane si è tenuto l’8 Dicembre, e le fotografie e i video che circolano da quel giorno ci fanno pensare che poche lacrime di dolore siano state versate: il corteo in giro per Dublino, la messa nella piccola chiesa della contea di Tipperary (dove trascorse l’infanzia), il prete che durante l’omelia condivide i suoi ricordi di adolescente punk, cita i versi di Shane e rende omaggio a Sinéad O’Connor (che avrebbe compiuto gli anni quel giorno), l’altare che diventa un palco sul quale si alternano gli amici – tra i quali Johnny Depp e Nick Cave, che canta al pianoforte una versione da pelle d’oca di A Rainy Night In Soho -, i Pogues che si riuniscono per l’ultima volta e i presenti che ballano sulle note delle loro canzoni, mentre il presidente irlandese Michael D. Higgins si gode placidamente lo spettacolo; e la festa che dalla chiesa si diffonde per le strade, dove gruppi di persone armate di chitarre rendono il loro personale omaggio. Ecco un popolo che sa come celebrare i propri eroi. Sláinte!

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

Shane MacGowan, un uomo che non incontri tutti i giorni

di Agnese Alstrian

Giovedì 30 Novembre, alle 3 del mattino, Shane MacGowan se n’è andato. Ho letto la notizia mentre preparavo il pranzo e per poco non ho dato fuoco alle melenzane. È normale piangere la morte di qualcuno che non hai mai incontrato – né che tantomeno sapeva della tua esistenza -, come se fosse un amico o uno di famiglia? Potrà sembrare stupido, ma io credo di sì. Crescendo, più musica ascoltavo e più allargavo la mia famiglia parallela, una schiera di padri e zii acquisiti che mi davano conforto e sostegno con la loro arte – e Shane era uno di questi.

Ho iniziato ad ascoltare i Pogues nel 2012, avevo 11 anni e probabilmente sono stati la prima band che ho scoperto “da sola”, ovvero tramite i Clash e leggendo Rolling Stone: il numero di Dicembre di quell’anno conteneva un editoriale su Joe Strummer in occasione del decennale della sua scomparsa, oltre a un lungo articolo sulla storia di Fairytale of New York, il successo anti-natalizio dei Pogues. Nei mesi successivi riuscii a mettere le mani sul loro album d’esordio, Red Roses for Me, e portai in giro quel CD così tanto da procurare alla custodia di plastica una brutta spaccatura. Continuavo ad ascoltare, cantare e ballare, affascinata da quella musica magica che fino a quel momento non era mai entrata a casa mia.

I Pogues mi hanno aperto le porte di un mondo fino ad allora sconosciuto e mi hanno fatto capire che essere punk significa anche appassionarti alla tua cultura così tanto da riuscire a rendere nuove le cose antiche e viceversa (per parafrasare Jim Jarmusch): loro non indossavano vestiti strappati né sfoderavano chitarre distorte; al contrario, erano virtuosi della fisarmonica, del tin whistle e del banjo e si vestivano come venditori ambulanti (o impresari delle pompe funebri, in base all’occasione). Shane MacGowan – magrissimo, con i (pochi) denti pietosamente malridotti e le orecchie a sventola – era il loro bardo: più che cantare biascicava e urlava aggrappato al microfono (spesso con una bottiglia o una sigaretta nell’altra mano), ma scriveva da dio. Nessuno meglio di lui è mai riuscito a raccontare la miseria e la bellezza della condizione umana con così tanta autenticità. E non parlo solo dei pub, dei fiumi di whisky, della violenza e degli sconfitti della società, perché Shane non si limitava a descrivere la durezza di ciò che viveva, ma aveva soprattutto la delicata capacità, attraverso poche e semplici parole, di farti sentire il freddo e l’umidità di una giornata di pioggia, di parlare d’amore e di rivolgere l’attenzione alla straordinarietà delle cose mondane – come il canto del vento che soffia lungo il fiume o il sollievo che può dare lo sguardo gentile di un paio di occhi castani; in Lullaby of London, una delle sue canzoni più commoventi, offre una preghiera di protezione dai rumori della città, dagli affanni e dai brutti sogni, lodando l’armonia della natura e la benevolenza degli angeli.

Nato il giorno di Natale del 1957 in Inghilterra in una famiglia di cattolici irlandesi, sembrava che dovesse spettare proprio a lui il compito di scrivere la più grande canzone natalizia di tutti i tempi: Fairytale of New York è un calcio ai sentimentalismi melensi delle Feste; ci sono sogni infranti, litigi, solitudine, insulti, celle per ubriachi, dichiarazioni d’amore, grazia, squallore e speranza – l’essenza umana da un estremo a un altro perché, alla fine, cos’è il Natale se non quel periodo dell’anno in cui desideriamo che tutto cambi?

Oggi il mio cuore fa male un po’ anche per quelli che non hanno conosciuto Shane oltre la superficie, perché sotto ai denti marci, gli occhi spiritati e l’etanolo spesso in circolo c’era uno degli animi più sensibili che la musica abbia mai avuto. Un vero narratore della vita in tutta la sua complessità, che scriveva come un poeta e cantava come un diavolo. Mi mancherà.

Possa il vento che soffia dalle tombe infestate

Non portarti mai miseria

Possano gli angeli luminosi

Vegliare su di te

E proteggerti mentre dormi

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.

In conversation: interview to Big Girl’s Blouse

by Agnese Alstrian

When I interviewed Emmy Leishman for the first time in January 2021, Big Girl’s Blouse was still an embryonic project: just a couple of lo-fi demos on soundcloud and so many goals to achieve. In the two years since that interview, the dream has gradually come true more and more: in September 2021 the band’s first official single Rock and Roll Hit of September was released on spotify, followed by the first adrenaline-pumping concerts. The release earlier this year of Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time ushered in the anticipation of Big Girl’s Blouse’s first EP: Man Up – a four-track concentrate of punk irony and anger. In this interview I talked with Emmy about the inspiration behind the songs on the EP, gender stereotypes, male violence and adulthood.

In the last three years you’ve really come a long way: from the first demos on soundcloud to landing on spotify, the concerts and now the EP. How are you all feeling?

I’m feeling good, nervous, and hopeful. It’s so lucky we got to release an EP and play these headlines in the first place – when I started the soundcloud, like you remember, I didn’t know if this would have the scope to go anywhere and so I still get pretty amazed. But things are always uncertain and hard to predict in music so you have to hang on tight!

According to wikipedia, “big girl’s blouse” is an idiom for “someone failing to show masculine strength or determination”; and not only the name of the band, but also the title of the EP expresses an interest in questioning gender stereotypes. In recent times, music and art in particular have highlighted how arbitrary and harmful these stereotypes are, clashing at the same time with reactionary forces that instead try to oppose them driven by an imaginary alarmism. What is your personal experience with this?

That’s very well said! I suppose… I feel a lot of people in our generation were able to start questioning quite early stuff like gender roles, gender identity, sexual orientation… At that age, you are even less likely to just accept that the world as it is handed over to you is the way it is, patriarchy and all. As a 15-years-old I remember being so, so, infuriated with the absurdity of it all, and that translates now in making jokes about gender stereotypes in music. I find it fun as a ‘girl’ to appropriate sayings that are used to undermine your gender.

Man Up, your first EP, was released in early April: what memories do you have of its making?

So many! We were already planning and practicing for the studio in April ‘22, we recorded at the end of June and then mixing, finding the name, mastering, doing the artwork with Rosie (Sco, Discordance’s Photographer of the Month in November 2020, e.d.), planning the release and shows… the process took over a year, and it was on my mind pretty much every day. But here’s five memories I remember off the top of my head:

1) Driving about all piled in Chris (the producer)’s car between the Chem 19 studios and the shops listening to like mad dub/reggae music I think?

2) Reece (drums) and Ross (guitar) making monkey sex noises in the vocal booth when they were supposed to record “Hey!” backing vocals on “Sharks”.

3) Crying on the last day when I had to record all my vocals (four songs in one day!) because I really tried to act out what the songs meant to me while at the same time feeling overwhelmed by the task of making them “the way they will sound like forever”, so emotionally I don’t think I was prepared but I’m really happy with how they sound now!

4) Rosie and I sitting in my living room trying to decide what the EP artwork should be, and looking up to the records on the wall to see “Dig Me Out” by Sleater-Kinney staring back at us. It felt so obvious to inspire our cover from it, because this album inspired so much of the EP in the first place.

5) The very last recording of the EP was the additional percussion on “What the Hell is Wrong With Your Head” – it had gotten to 4 in the morning on the last day and Reece was asleep on the floor of the recording room, Harrison had went home and me and Ross did a take of hitting and blowing on empty beer bottles and shaking maracas, and it was used on the song. Actually that’s not completely true, Reece woke up after and we all recorded the hand clapping and finger snapping on the last chorus of “I’m Scared of Men” together, and walked out of the studio at 5. We were all pretty exhausted by then ahah!

Is there a particular track that you feel most connected to?

That changes all the time, but I think overall “What the Hell is Wrong With Your Head”. It’s probably the least popular song on the EP but I’m so proud of it. I wrote it when I’d just moved to Glasgow and didn’t really write songs, and because it’s literally two chords (a D and C shape played up the neck of the guitar) and like four sentences I always viewed it as a wee joke song. But I suppose it’s a real question most people ask themselves from time to time and I like the naivety of the lyrics. The cherry on top was when Ross came up with this Velvet Underground-like guitar part that suddenly tied everything together. The band in general gave everything so much dimension.

I’ve already talked about Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time – the EP’s opening track – in the third episode of the Earworm column, dedicated to coming-of-age songs. What relationship do you have with “adult” life? Has music (and in particular writing) helped you in any way to understand and overcome the Hamletic doubts that afflict us growing up?

Yes, that was so nice of you! That’s a great question. I’d say I had just started becoming an adult when I wrote the first batch of Big Girl’s Blouse’s songs, including “Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time”. I was 19, summer was ending and we were in between lockdowns but didn’t know it yet. For me, growing into adulthood has mainly been about overcoming homesickness and loneliness, learning to live independently, far away from my family whom I have always been very close with. I was feeling a bit lost and I think writing these songs helped me understand how I felt, definitely.

The song from Man Up that made me think the most is Scared of Men: it’s a collection of thoughts and situations that unfortunately many girls and people have experienced. I know it’s an impossible question to answer, but: will we ever stop being afraid?

I hope so! But maybe not right now. I always say this about the song: it’s not about men as individuals being scary, it’s about how I am scared of the infinite possibilities I could be intimidated, threatened or attacked alone in the street at night, by men, if they wanted to. As I walk, I think: “it’s unlikely anything will happen to me, it’s quiet, I’m alert”, but if a guy starts walking too fast behind me, my heart starts beating so fast and horror scenarios flash into my head. I’m sure guys also get scared but I doubt that they systematically feel like literal prey every time they walk home from the pub. I doubt that they clench rape alarms in their fists and bow their heads. It makes me sick! I suppose once we start hearing less about women being murdered and sexually assaulted in the news and more about the patriarchy dissolving then we’ll be a step closer. Fingers crossed.

You celebrated the release with a spectacular show with lots of local support bands. Do you want to tell us about that evening?

It was incredible! Definitely the biggest project I have put together, I was so nervous about pulling it off and we did! People came! I was so relieved and we had such a good time. Arse Mafia were so sick and crazy, Stoned Immaculate so wholesome and beautiful, Pinc Wafer so fun and energetic. Very blessed everyone came together for it. Playing the show felt really fun too, it was our biggest crowd/stage/everything and it was so different from other shows, so exciting.

How’s the Glasgow scene doing right now?

Good, I think! Different from what it has been, with new bands replacing older bands, or old bands rebranding, etc. But still as thriving and vibrant as it has always been I think, the only difference now is that there are more girls in bands than they used to before covid so that’s pretty amazing.

Do you already know what awaits you in the future?

Nope ahah! I sometimes say being in a band or working in music is like climbing an invisible ladder – you can tell when you’ve gone up a step but it’s impossible to see the next one until you get it. All I can do is keep masterminding this and hope we get lucky! And hope we keep writing music we’re happy with, that’s hard too. So far, so good. Thanks for having me!

In conversazione: intervista ai Big Girl’s Blouse

di Agnese Alstrian

Quando ho intervistato Emmy Leishman per la prima volta a Gennaio 2021, Big Girl’s Blouse era ancora un progetto in fase embrionale: giusto un paio di demo lo-fi su soundcloud e tanti obiettivi da realizzare. Nell’arco di due anni da quell’intervista, il sogno si è pian piano concretizzato sempre di più: a Settembre 2021 è uscito su spotify il primo singolo ufficiale della band Rock and Roll Hit of September, seguito dai primi adrenalinici concerti. L’uscita all’inizio di quest’anno di Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time ha inaugurato l’attesa del primo EP dei Big Girl’s Blouse: Man Up – un concentrato di ironia e rabbia punk in quattro tracce. In questa intervista ho parlato con Emmy dell’ispirazione dietro le canzoni dell’EP, di stereotipi di genere, di violenza maschile e di età adulta.

In questi ultimi tre anni avete fatto davvero molta strada: dalle prime demo su soundcloud all’approdo su spotify, i concerti e ora l’EP. Come vi sentite?

Mi sento bene, nervosa, e fiduciosa. Innanzitutto siamo stati davvero fortunati ad aver pubblicato un EP e fatto questi concerti – quando ho iniziato su soundcloud, come ben ricordi, non sapevo se questo progetto avrebbe avuto la possibilità di andare da qualche parte, e quindi ancora oggi sono abbastanza stupefatta. Ma le cose nel mondo della musica sono sempre incerte e difficili da prevedere quindi devi tenere duro!

Stando a wikipedia, “big girl’s blouse” è un modo di dire che indica “qualcuno che non riesce a mostrare forza o determinazione maschile”; e non solo il nome della band, ma anche il titolo dell’EP esprime un interesse verso la messa in discussione degli stereotipi di genere (l’espressione “man up” può tradursi come “sii uomo”, ndr). Negli ultimi tempi sono soprattutto la musica e l’arte a mettere in luce quanto questi stereotipi siano arbitrari e dannosi, scontrandosi allo stesso tempo con forze reazionarie che invece cercano di opporsi spinti da un allarmismo immaginario. Qual è la tua personale esperienza al riguardo?

L’hai detto bene! Credo… Penso che un sacco di persone della nostra generazione abbiano avuto la possibilità di iniziare a mettere in discussione abbastanza presto cose come i ruoli di genere, l’identità di genere, l’orientamento sessuale… A quell’età, sei ancora meno propenso a semplicemente accettare che il mondo così come ti viene consegnato sia nello stato in cui è, col patriarcato e tutto il resto. Quando avevo 15 anni ricordo che ero davvero infuriata con l’assurdità di tutto ciò, e questo si traduce ora col fare battute sugli stereotipi di genere nella musica. Trovo divertente da “ragazza” appropriarsi di modi di dire che vengono utilizzati per sminuire il tuo genere.

Man Up, il vostro primo EP, è uscito i primi di Aprile: che ricordi hai della sua realizzazione?

Ce ne sono tanti! Stavamo già pianificando e provando per lo studio nell’Aprile ’22, abbiamo registrato alla fine di Giugno e poi abbiamo mixato, trovato il nome, masterizzato, realizzato la copertina con Rosie (Sco, la Fotografa del Mese di Novembre 2020 di Discordance, ndr), pianificato la pubblicazione e i concerti… il processo ha richiesto più di un anno, e ce l’ho avuto in testa praticamente ogni giorno. Ma ecco cinque ricordi che mi vengono in mente ora:

1) Andare in giro tutti stipati nella macchina di Chris (il produttore) tra gli studi Chem 19 e i negozi ascoltando qualcosa tipo una strana musica dub-reggae, credo?

2) Reece (batteria) e Ross (chitarra) che fanno rumori da sesso delle scimmie nella cabina di registrazione della voce quando avrebbero dovuto registrare i cori di “Hey!” su “Sharks”.

3) Piangere l’ultimo giorno quando ho dovuto registrare tutte le mie tracce vocali (quattro canzoni in un giorno!) perché avevo cercato di esprimere cosa i brani significavano per me mentre allo stesso tempo mi sentivo sopraffatta dal compito di renderli “nel modo in cui si ascolteranno per sempre”, quindi emotivamente non penso che fossi preparata ma ora sono molto contenta di come sia riuscito!

4) Rosie e io sedute nel mio soggiorno mentre cerchiamo di decidere come dovrebbe essere la copertina dell’EP, e guardare i dischi sulla parete per poi notare che “Dig Me Out” degli Sleater-Kinney ci fissava a sua volta. Ci sembrò ovvio trarre ispirazione per la nostra copertina da quell’album, perché ha influenzato tantissimo l’EP.

5) L’ultimissima registrazione dell’EP è stata la percussione aggiuntiva su “What the Hell is Wrong With Your Head” – ce la siamo trascinata fino alle 4 del mattino dell’ultimo giorno e Reece dormiva sul pavimento della sala di registrazione, Harrison se ne andò a casa e io e Ross facemmo un take di noi due che colpivamo e soffiavamo su delle bottiglie di birra vuote e scuotevamo le maracas, e questo è stato utilizzato sulla canzone. A dire la verità non è totalmente vero, Reece dopo si svegliò e tutti insieme registrammo i battiti di mani e gli schiocchi di dita sull’ultimo ritornello di “I’m Scared of Men”, e ce ne andammo dallo studio alle 5. A quel punto eravamo tutti abbastanza esausti ahah!

C’è un brano in particolare al quale ti senti più legata?

Cambia ogni volta, ma penso che tra tutte sia “What the Hell is Wrong With Your Head”. Probabilmente è la canzone meno popolare sull’EP ma ne sono molto fiera. L’ho scritta quando mi ero appena trasferita a Glasgow e ancora non scrivevo davvero canzoni, e siccome è letteralmente due accordi (un Re e un Do suonati vicino al collo della chitarra) e tipo quattro frasi l’ho sempre visto come un piccolo brano scherzoso. Ma penso che sia una domanda reale che la maggior parte delle persone si chiede di tanto in tanto, e mi piace l’ingenuità del testo. La ciliegina sulla torta è stato quando Ross se ne uscì con questa parte di chitarra alla Velvet Underground che improvvisamente unì il tutto. La band in generale ha dato a tutto tantissima profondità.

Ho già parlato Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time – la traccia di apertura dell’EP – nel terzo episodio della rubrica Earworm, dedicato alle canzoni di formazione. Che rapporto hai con la vita “da adulti”? La musica (e in particolare la scrittura) ti ha aiutata in qualche modo a comprendere e superare i dubbi amletici che ci affliggono crescendo?

Sì, quello è stato davvero carino da parte tua! Questa è una bella domanda. Direi che cominciai a diventare un’adulta quando scrissi il primo blocco di canzoni di Big Girl’s Blouse, inclusa “Everybody Nearly Dies All The Time”. Avevo 19 anni, l’estate stava finendo ed eravamo tra un lockdown e l’altro ma ancora non lo sapevamo. Per me, diventare adulta ha significato principalmente superare la nostalgia di casa e la solitudine, imparare a vivere indipendentemente, lontana dalla mia famiglia con cui sono sempre stata molto vicina. Mi sentivo un po’ persa e penso che scrivere queste canzoni mi abbia aiutata a capire come mi sentivo, sicuramente.

La canzone di Man Up che mi ha fatto riflettere di più è I’m Scared of Men: è una raccolta di pensieri e situazioni che purtroppo molte ragazze e persone hanno vissuto. So che è una domanda a cui è impossibile rispondere, ma: smetteremo mai di avere paura?

Spero di sì! Ma forse non ora. Ho sempre detto questo sulla canzone: non parla degli uomini come individui spaventosi, è sulla mia paura delle infinite possibilità di essere intimidita, minacciata o attaccata da sola per le strade di notte, dagli uomini, se lo volessero. Mentre cammino, penso: “È improbabile che mi succeda qualcosa, c’è tranquillità, io sono all’erta”, ma se un ragazzo comincia a camminare troppo velocemente dietro di me, il mio cuore comincia a battere all’impazzata e mi vengono pensieri orribili. Sono sicura che anche i ragazzi si spaventano ma dubito che sistematicamente si sentano delle prede, letteralmente, ogni volta che tornano a casa a piedi dal pub. Dubito che stringano in mano allarmi anti-stupro e camminino a testa bassa. Mi disgusta! Penso che una volta che inizieremo a sentire meno notizie di donne che vengono uccise e aggredite sessualmente, e di più sul patriarcato che si dissolve, allora faremo un passo avanti. Incrociamo le dita.

Avete festeggiato la pubblicazione con uno show spettacolare show con tante band di supporto locali. Ti va di raccontarci quella serata?

È stato incredibile! Assolutamente il progetto più grande che abbia mai realizzato, ero così nervosa di portarlo a termine e ce l’abbiamo fatta! La gente è venuta! Ero così sollevata e ci siamo divertiti tantissimo. Gli Arse Mafia sono stati incredibili e pazzi, gli Stoned Immaculate così carini e fantastici, i Pinc Wafer così divertenti ed energici. È stato una fortuna che tutti ci siamo uniti per realizzarlo. Anche suonare allo show è stato divertente, è stato il più grande pubblico/palco/tutto, così diverso dagli altri concerti, davvero emozionante.

Come se la passa la scena di Glasgow in questo momento?

Bene, penso! Diversa da com’era, con nuove band che sostituiscono vecchie band, o vecchie band che si reinventano, ecc. Ma è ancora florida e vibrante com’è sempre stata, credo, l’unica differenza adesso è che rispetto a prima del covid nei gruppi ci sono molte più ragazze quindi è parecchio incredibile.

Sai già cosa vi aspetta in futuro?

No ahah! A volte dico che stare in una band o lavorare nella musica è come arrampicarsi su una scala invisibile – puoi dire quando sei salito di un gradino ma è impossibile vedere il prossimo finché non lo raggiungi. Tutto quello che posso fare è continuare ad orchestrare questo progetto e sperare di essere fortunati! E sperare di continuare a scrivere musica di cui siamo felici, anche questo è difficile. Fin qui, tutto bene. Grazie per avermi ospitata!

Earworm #4: Sound System (ENG)

by Agnese Alstrian

In Jamaican culture, sound systems represent the cornerstone of community: born in the 1950s as open-air mobile discos for the use and consumption of poorest areas’ inhabitants, they spread loud music through an impressive audio system made up of record players, speakers and amplifiers. Initially, sound systems mainly played American rhythm and blues songs, and then focused more and more on local sounds, providing a fundamental boost for the birth of the ska, rocksteady, reggae and dub genres, and for the development of a recording industry destined to become one of the most important and influential in the world.

Earlier this year I dusted off my limited knowledge of Jamaican music, slowly discovering a vast and complex art that extends far beyond the line of Bob Marley and hippie gadgets with marijuana leaves printed on them: a heritage that over the decades has developed in the ghettos of Kingston thanks to sound systems, and then landed from Jamaica to the United Kingdom, where it has established and mixed with local subcultures, genres and adversities.

In this episode of Earworm we’ll dig deep into 10 songs from my own personal sound system, from 60s reggae, ska and rocksteady classics to late 70s British 2-Tone.

Desmond Dekker, Israelites

Often the greatest successes arise from chance, like scenes we witness or snippets of conversation we happen to overhear. Desmond Dekker was walking quietly when he came across a couple’s argument: they worked like slaves but the money was never enough to feed their families. Time to go back home and the lyrics for a new song were ready. Israelites was released in October 1968, and the following year it went to number one in seven charts – Jamaica, UK, Netherlands, West Germany, South Africa, Sweden and Canada: it was the first time that a ska track (also sung with a strong patois accent, such as to make the words ambiguous) reached so high in the rest of the world. The King of Ska had his title back.

With this song, Dekker gave voice to the misery and marginalisation of his people: on an apparently cheerful and light-hearted rhythm, the protagonist desperately tries to stay afloat in the midst of rampant poverty and corruption. Like many other songs of this genre, Israelites demonstrates an innate ability of Jamaican music: that of being able to convey joy and hope despite the difficulties.

Toots & The Maytals, Pressure Drop

I’ve always liked Toots & The Maytals because they looked like guys who would never hurt a fly. This peaceful impression is confirmed by the genesis of Pressure Drop: the group’s leader Toots Hibbert found himself unjustly imprisoned (as neo-melodics would say) for a year and once released, instead of seeking a bloody revenge, he vented the deep sense of injustice he felt by writing a song, based on a phrase he used to say to all those who wronged him – “pressure’s gonna drop on you”, the bad deeds you inflict on the innocent will come back to haunt you.

Pressure Drop actually managed to redeem Toots from that negative experience: it has become one of the group’s most famous songs and one of the cornerstones of reggae music – among other things, a term coined by the Maytals themselves.

Musical Youth, Pass The Dutchie

If you’ve been on the internet this past year, you surely know that the soundtrack of Stranger Things’ last season has been responsible for proper musical obsessions, for which many of us have found ourselves even suffering when stumbling for the billionth time upon a 30-second video with the exact same fragment of Running Up That Hill in the background: among the songs victims of this curious form of collective hysteria there was also Pass The Dutchie by Musical Youth. This song has an interesting history: it was born as a cover of Pass The Kouchie by the Mighty Diamonds, but since it didn’t seem very appropriate to have a group of kids sing a song with explicit references to marijuana, the lyrics underwent some changes. In fact, the kouchie of the original song is a kind of pipe used for cannabis, and by transforming the term into dutchie they tried to change the meaning to food (dutch pots are saucepans typical of Jamaican cuisine): a not 100% successful manoeuvre however, because in slang dutchie also refers to weed.

Spliff references or not, Pass The Dutchie became an instant hit and got the young Musical Youth savouring those famous 15 minutes before a series of unfortunate financial and personal events ended their short but fun adventure.

Jimmy Cliff, The Harder They Come

In 1972, the film The Harder They Come was released: inspired by the true story of bandit Ivanhoe “Rhygin” Martin, it tells the story of Ivan (played by reggae star Jimmy Cliff), a country boy who moved to the big city looking for fortune; his dream is to become a successful singer, but his involvement in criminal circles will make him the protagonist of a ruthless manhunt by the local authorities. Thanks to the documentary and “neorealist” style shooting around Kingston, the references to Italian western cinema and outlaw imagery, but above all to a monumental soundtrack that brings together the best of the Jamaican music scene, the film soon acquired the status of cult, as well as the merit of having “brought reggae to the world”.

In one of the most memorable scenes, Ivan finally manages to convince the reluctant producer of a recording studio to record one of his songs: here Jimmy Cliff gets out of the role of the film character to give an exciting interpretation of the song that gives the title to the film, a hymn to resistance against oppression to get what we deserve.

Junior Murvin, Police & Thieves

Junior Murvin already had a past as a rocksteady singer under the pseudonym Junior Soul when he decided to change the direction of his artistic production: in 1977, in fact, he inaugurated the transition to reggae with a new name and a record, Police & Thieves – produced by the legendary Lee “Scratch” Perry. The publication of the album had been brought forward the previous year by the release of the single of the same name, which became a success especially in Great Britain, where it served as the soundtrack to a summer full of tensions: in August 1976, the friction between the police and the Caribbean community reached its peak, resulting in the Notting Hill Riots during Carnival. That day, among the songs that were heard from the sound systems in the street there was also Police & Thieves.

Among the participants involved in the revolt were Joe Strummer and Paul Simonon who, between a brick thrown at the policemen and another, probably decided right then to make a cover of Junior Murvin’s song: The Clash’s version of Police & Thieves not only helped to increase the popularity of the original song, but above all officialised the fellowship between punks and rastas.

The Specials, Rat Race

The 70s were a complex decade for the UK: unemployment, inflation, energy crisis, racial tensions, distrust of the future. The Windrush generation – which was drawn from the Caribbean for post-World War II reconstruction with promises of a new and prosperous life – struggled to find their footing amid mounting hostilities and violence, and the far-right National Front party rode undisturbed the wave of discontent and fear sweeping through the country. In 1976 the punk movement exploded, whose followers sought to channel the anxiety and confusion of the period in a creative and sympathetic way: soon the punks allied themselves with young blacks, supporting their cause, appreciating their culture and incorporating those elements in their own music (for instance, as The Clash did). But like all corrosive and ruthless phenomena, the punk of the early years eventually faded away – unlike the problems of the United Kingdom.

Around 1979, however, a glimmer of hope was rekindled. A new musical genre was beginning to make its way: it was an interesting mix of ska and punk called 2-Tone, like the homonymous independent record label that produced the records of those new bands. It was created a scene full of groups that reflected the multi-ethnicity of English society, with blacks and whites playing side by side, contrasting intolerance one skanking at a time: at the forefront were The Specials, whose debut album came out that same year.

The Specials, originally from Coventry, stood out for their impeccable union between punk and rude boy musical culture and for their intelligent social observation lyrics: for example, Rat Race reflects on what awaits those kids who are committed to their education hoping for a decent future, only to be outclassed by people who inherited wealth.

The Selecter, Missing Words

Another fundamental group of second wave ska are The Selecter, led by the undisputed Queen of Rude Girls, Pauline Black. I have great admiration for her: she’s an artist who has never set limits to her creativity – trying everything from music to writing and acting – and has always fought to assert herself in a scene where being the only woman was not easy, and in a world where being black was even less so.

The Selecter’s first album, Too Much Pressure, is generally remembered for up-tempo, fast-paced and quintessentially 2-Tone songs like the title track, Three Minute Hero, My Collie (Not a Dog) or James Bond, but there’s one – Missing Words – that seems to come from other places: a song permeated by a strange bitterness, with guitar strokes that sound ringing and menacing at the same time, and Pauline’s solemn voice telling with intimidating determination a story of disappointment and incommunicability.

The Slickers, Johnny Too Bad

Rude Boys have always exercised a strong attraction on the Jamaican artistic imagination: their unruly and violent lifestyle (as well as the always impeccable clothing) has inspired many songs, in a mix of reproach and fascination. One of my favourites is Johnny Too Bad by The Slickers (among other things, part of The Harder They Come’s legendary soundtrack): the relaxed and bouncy pace of the music almost makes us imagine the walk of the protagonist, boldly advancing with a pistol in his belt, feeling invincible. But – as Toots & The Maytals teach us – every action has a reaction, and one day Johnny will have to come to terms with the brutality of his world: the underlying melancholy reminds us of this with every listen.

Clancy Eccles, What Will Your Mama Say

Let’s change register and land in more romantic territories. A young couple think about the experiences they’ve lived together, dream of marriage and plan for the happiness that awaits them, but there’s a small detail: the girl’s mother is totally unaware of her daughter’s relationship, leaving us to guess that she probably wouldn’t approve it. In any case, let’s hope everything went well.

Prince Buster, Enjoy Yourself

With all due respect to Desmond Dekker, the title of King of ska must be shared with Prince Buster: legend has it that this genre was born thanks to an intuition of him. But Buster wasn’t just a pioneer: he was also a sound system owner, boxer, producer, songwriter and mentor. In fact, he had a huge influence on the ska revival of the late 70s: Madness not only owe him their name, but also the enormous success with the cover of One Step Beyond; The Specials, on the other hand, borrowed some Al Capone‘s pieces for their Gangsters, included a version of Too Hot in their debut album and opened their second record with a masterful cover of Enjoy Yourself. It’s with this song that I’d like to conclude this episode of Earworm.

Enjoy Yourself already exhausts itself from the title: it’s an invitation to have fun and enjoy life, but also to make the right choices, to educate oneself, be compassionate and not waste one’s qualities. You can always be wise, but young only once: take it and make good use of it.