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.

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.

Earworm #1: Sogni

di Agnese Alstrian

“Earworm” (letteralmente “verme dell’orecchio”) è un termine inglese che indica una canzone che entra in testa e assilla per un tempo prolungato – come se la musica strisciasse fisicamente nelle nostre orecchie e decidesse di rimanervi.

Questa nuova rubrica, di volta in volta, raccoglierà alcuni brani evocati da delle parole-chiave: in questo primo episodio parlerò di 10 canzoni che mi ricordano tutto ciò che è delicato ed etereo, proprio come i sogni.

Cigarettes After Sex, Apocalypse

Credo che i Cigarettes After Sex siano i maestri indiscussi quando si tratta di realizzare canzoni che sembrano sogni ad occhi aperti. Musica per romantici insonni e anime sensibili, che culla, avvolge e inghiotte in un mare di sana tristezza e beatitudine, come una ninnananna.

Suki Waterhouse, Good Looking

Per citare un commento sotto al videoclip su youtube, “questa canzone mi fa arrossire per il fidanzato che non ho”. Questo brano, col suo andamento leggiadro e l’intensità del ritornello, trasmette alla perfezione la sensazione (non necessariamente vissuta) di essere giovani e innamorati: un sentimento spontaneo e di reciproca conoscenza, senza pretese o pressioni, sospeso in un tempo che sembra infinito.

Emerson Snowe, If I Die, Then I Die

Sin dal primo ascolto, capii che avevo fatto una grandissima scoperta. Emerson Snowe è tutto quello che un artista indipendente dovrebbe essere: entusiasta, curioso, intrepido, umile ed eclettico. If I Die, Then I Die è una piccola hit pop nata dall’unione tra il romanticismo evanescente anni 80 e un testo poetico ed evocativo. Questa canzone, con la sua travolgente drammaticità a tinte pastello, è forse tutt’ora quella che rappresenta al meglio il sound unico di Snowe.

Mazzy Star, Fade Into You

Un classico del genere dreampop anni 90. Una ballata dolce e sonnolenta, con le chitarre, il pianoforte e la voce languida di Hope Sandoval che ci trascinano in una dimensione notturna e sognante. La struttura del brano è semplicissima – tre accordi che si ripetono per tutta la sua durata – ma è abbastanza per creare un’atmosfera carica di amarezza e nostalgia, da groppo in gola. Un piccolo capolavoro emotivo.

Fontaines D.C., Oh Such a Spring

Poesia sotto forma di musica: una chitarra piangente accompagna Grian Chatten nella descrizione di una Dublino malinconica, appartenente ad un tempo lontano e indefinito. Quelle evocate sono immagini tristi e decadenti; un mondo di sofferenza e sacrificio in cui la vita scorre lenta, nella continua speranza del ritorno di una primavera ormai perduta, fatta di giovinezza, luce e spensieratezza.

Mars Argo, Runaway Runaway

Spesso le canzoni riescono a trasmettere sensazioni totalmente opposte a quelle che sono le intenzioni e il messaggio originari. Questo brano così delicato ha avuto una genesi tutt’altro che dolce: Mars Argo descrive con sincerità disarmante i propri pensieri dopo aver vissuto una relazione violenta che ha compromesso la sua salute mentale e la sua carriera artistica, riuscendo a trasformare il dolore in una leggerezza commovente, quella che serve per volare via e lasciarsi tutto alle spalle. Sublime.

Declan McKenna, I Am Everyone Else

L’immagine che ho sempre avuto in mente ascoltando questo brano è di una spiaggia deserta, inondata dalla luce dorata del tramonto, e il suono delle onde che si infrangono sulla riva: eppure I Am Everyone Else non parla né di spiagge né di natura, ma è piuttosto una riflessione sulla politica e sul voler apparire come in realtà non si è per accattivarsi la benevolenza degli altri. Sin dal disco d’esordio Declan McKenna dimostra di saper osservare e raccontare il mondo col suo stile ironico, limpido e acuto, in maniera sempre stimolante e poliedrica, mai scontata.

Sorry, As the Sun Sets

Un prato gigantesco e la voglia irrefrenabile di correre verso il sole che tramonta: questo è il desiderio espresso in una delle canzoni più belle ed evocative mai scritte dai Sorry. Gli stati d’animo alterati e le emozioni tormentate sono sempre stati al centro della loro produzione: in As the Sun Sets, l’incontro con una persona che si sarebbe preferito non vedere scatena un paralizzante senso di imbarazzo, che infine trova soluzione nella contemplazione della natura e nella fusione con essa; un invito a cercare la bellezza in ogni cosa e a rifugiarvisi per non lasciarsi sopraffare dall’oscurità.

Alex Turner, Stuck on the Puzzle

Certamente la traccia più celebre della colonna sonora realizzata per l’adattamento cinematografico di Submarine, iconica già a partire ai versi di apertura: “Non sono il tipo stupido che si siede e ti canta delle stelle”. Una dichiarazione d’intenti del frontman degli Arctic Monkeys, da sempre attento osservatore della società e dei sentimenti, capace di scrivere canzoni d’amore profonde e acute senza cadere nei soliti cliché stucchevoli. Posizionata strategicamente durante gli ultimi titoli di coda, Stuck on the Puzzle tiene viva l’attenzione di noi spettatori fino alla fine mentre riflettiamo sulla bizzarra serie di eventi di Submarine, facendoci chiedere se ciò che abbiamo visto attraverso gli occhi del protagonista Oliver Tate in realtà non fosse stato tutto un sogno.

Gorillaz, Souk Eye

Quando nel 2017 uscì Humanz, diversi critici e fans si lamentarono della quasi eccessiva presenza di featuring in tutte le tracce come se, invece di un album dei Gorillaz, Damon Albarn avesse voluto realizzare una compilation collaborativa in cui ogni brano veniva creato ad hoc per gli ospiti, spesso sacrificando una scrittura arguta e sincera a favore di una più corale e generalizzata. Il disco successivo, The Now Now del 2018, segnò un decisivo cambio di rotta: featuring ridotti all’osso e Albarn di nuovo al timone. Souk Eye è la conclusione perfetta di un album ironicamente più umano di Humanz: il buon vecchio tema dell’amore e del ricordo scivola sulle note delicate di un semplice riff di chitarra, giungendo in un emozionante crescendo di violini affilati, scampanellii e un ritmo coinvolgente. Un finale memorabile.

Today we review… Maki Flow – “Can’t Act My Age” (Sharky Records, 2021)

by Agnese Alstrian

There’s an English saying that I think is one of my favourites: “act your age, not your shoe size”; the first time I heard it, a long time ago, I thought I discovered one of the most brilliant phrases ever created (so brilliant that it convinced me to write it with a marker on an extra large shirt that I occasionally use as pajamas). As often happens with things that are simple and brilliant at the same time, we are offered a lot of food for thought: I am twenty years old, I’ve had the same shoe size for at least ten years or more and, as I remember, I don’t think I have ever behaved like a 36 years old (also because I still have no idea what a person does at that age). If I transfer everything under the observation lens of the English measurement system, the 36 Italian size transforms into a size 3, and then there everything changes: images of every time I have behaved like a childish brat run quickly in front of my eyes (and I humbly apologise to anyone who has been involved in those situations). Moral of the story: it’s really difficult to keep faith with your years (or at least, to act in the ways considered socially acceptable and appropriate for a given age).

I don’t know if Maki Flow has ever found herself mulling over that phrase as much as I have, but certainly her debut EP Can’t Act My Age has as its creative core a problem that unites us all: growing up, and at the same time trying not to behave according to our shoe size. But, unlike many who try again and again often without success, Maki admits that growing up is hard work, and we might as well have fun and do whatever brings us joy and happiness, regardless of our age.

Can’t Act My Age is a small collection of incredibly cheerful and sparkling songs: Maki’s enthusiasm is contagious in every track, even in the most lyrically introspective ones, despite the blatantly pop and radio-friendly music suggests the opposite. It’s through the lyrics that Maki embarks on a journey of self-discovery, conducted both alone and with the help of co-author and partner Tom Bright (in the songs Complicated Creature and 6pm), and always reaching conclusions of compassion and self-acceptance, with all the flaws and virtues.

In her first EP, starting from a light but not at all superficial self-analysis, Maki Flow explores the concepts of maturity and growth: a path that inevitably leads us to stop and get to know ourselves, recognising our limits and making compromises, without leaving however that this prevents us from achieving the goals that we consider right for the us of the present, even at the cost of not transforming ourselves into the adults we expected to become when we were children.

Today we review… Katy J Pearson – “Return” (Heavenly Recordings, 2020)

by Agnese Alstrian

A debut album is certainly an important step for any artist: it’s the first stone thrown, the official landing in the world of music, a declaration of intent, a first collection of experiences and reflections that is finally formed, after countless rehearsals and attempts; some say that you spend your whole life writing your first album. But this is not always the case: its making can also be a long, tortuous and – at times – painful path, and its release represents a moment of liberation and rebirth, even before starting.

Katy J Pearson, before becoming the singer-songwriter we know today, was ½ of the pop duo Ardyn (along with her brother), but unfortunately the project didn’t end in the best way: another sad story of how major labels manage very well to stifle the creativity of little artists and so, after three EPs released, the two young musicians were inevitably crushed by the pressure of the record company and forced to give up. In particular Katy, determined to continue in one way or another her musical career, spent the following years putting together the pieces of a dream that she had built with so much devotion, only to resurrect in a new guise.

Return – released in November 2020 – is the result of that (not easy) period of self-analysis and writing: it’s the debut of a solo author, but also her return to the music scene. Reading the lyrics, what is striking is the wisdom with which Katy talks about the path that led her to open this new chapter, without hiding even a slight vulnerability:

I’ve changed like the weather

I’ve changed for the better

I’m as light as a feather

And as dark as a cave

But you know me better

I’m see through

Like a glass wall

You can see me much better than before

Also the joy of being back to doing what she loves the most, and being able to do it in a new environment that allows her to best develop her art in total freedom are palpable. These moments of engaging light-heartedness (Tonight, Fix Me Up, Take Back The Radio, Miracle), alternate with moments of delicate melancholy (Beautiful Soul, Return, Hey You), in which Katy often addresses words of comfort and understanding to an unknown interlocutor – or maybe to herself -, always with her distinctively high, crystalline and delightfully naïf voice.

To make this record even more unique is the country-inspired streak that permeates the whole album, but that finds its most fertile ground in some songs in particular (Something Real, On The Road, Waiting For The Day): songs imbued in a cinematic sense of adventure, with a bitter aftertaste in memory of the struggles of the past, but full of hope for the future. A future in which Katy will always be free to blossom, to transform everything that comes from her beautiful soul into music and words, and her return is just the beginning.

Oggi recensiamo… Katy J Pearson – “Return” (Heavenly Recordings, 2020)

di Agnese Alstrian

Un album d’esordio è certamente un passo importante per qualsiasi artista: è la prima pietra scagliata, l’approdo ufficiale nel mondo della musica, una dichiarazione d’intenti, una prima raccolta di esperienze e riflessioni che finalmente prendono forma, dopo innumerevoli esercitazioni e tentativi; c’è chi dice, infatti, che si passa tutta la vita a scrivere il primo album. Ma non è sempre così: la sua realizzazione può essere anche un percorso lungo, tortuoso e – a volte – doloroso, e la sua pubblicazione rappresenta un momento liberatorio e di rinascita, prima ancora di iniziare.

Katy J Pearson, prima di diventare la cantautrice che conosciamo oggi, era ½ del duo pop Ardyn (insieme a suo fratello), ma il progetto purtroppo non si concluse nel migliore dei modi: un’altra triste storia di come le major riescano benissimo a soffocare la creatività dei piccoli artisti e quindi, dopo tre EP pubblicati, i due giovani musicisti furono inevitabilmente schiacciati dalle pressioni della casa discografica e costretti a cedere. In particolare Katy, determinata a continuare in un modo o nell’altro la carriera musicale, trascorse gli anni successivi a rimettere insieme i pezzi di un sogno che aveva costruito con tanta devozione, per poi risorgere sotto una nuova veste.

Return – uscito a Novembre 2020 – è il risultato di quel (non facile) periodo di autoanalisi e scrittura: è l’esordio di un’autrice solista, ma anche il suo ritorno sulla scena musicale. Leggendo i testi, ciò che colpisce è la saggezza con cui Katy parla del percorso che l’ha portata ad aprire questo nuovo capitolo, senza nascondere neanche una tenue vulnerabilità:

I’ve changed like the weather

I’ve changed for the better

I’m as light as a feather

And as dark as a cave

But you know me better

I’m see through

Like a glass wall

You can see me much better than before

(Sono cambiata come il tempo / Sono cambiata per il meglio / Sono leggera come una piuma / E scura come una caverna / Ma tu mi conosci meglio / Sono trasparente / Come un muro di vetro / Puoi vedermi molto meglio di prima)

È palpabile anche la gioia di essere tornata a fare quello che ama di più, e di poterlo fare in un nuovo ambiente che le permette di sviluppare al meglio la sua arte in totale libertà. Questi momenti di coinvolgente spensieratezza (Tonight, Fix Me Up, Take Back The Radio, Miracle), si alternano a momenti di delicata malinconia (Beautiful Soul, Return, Hey You), in cui spesso Katy rivolge parole di conforto e comprensione ad uno sconosciuto interlocutore – o magari a sé stessa -, sempre con la sua voce acuta, cristallina e deliziosamente naïf.

A rendere questo disco ancora più unico è la vena d’ispirazione country che permea tutto l’album ma che trova in alcuni brani in particolare (Something Real, On The Road, Waiting For The Day) il suo terreno più fertile: canzoni intrise di un senso di avventura cinematografico, dal retrogusto amaro in ricordo delle sfide del passato, ma piena di speranza per il futuro. Un futuro in cui Katy sarà sempre libera di sbocciare, di trasformare in musica e parole tutto quello che proviene dalla sua bellissima anima, e questo suo ritorno è solo l’inizio.

Today we review… Goat Girl – “On All Fours” (Rough Trade, 2021)

by Agnese Alstrian

In the years following the release of their first album, Goat Girl have grown a lot: from young budding experimenters who made their debut with an album with mysterious and fascinating sounds, with lyrics produced during adolescence that incorporated public and private themes, they have evolved towards deeper and more mature territories. In the three years that divide Goat Girl from On All Fours, the band has faced personal battles, experimented with instruments, engaged in various forms of activism, went through the isolation of the pandemic: in this second album is evident the individual growth of each member of the group, who through music and words explore environments both inside and outside of themselves. The lyrics of On All Fours speak of subjective experiences, environment and climatic catastrophes, mental health, politics, the society in which we live; musically, it continues in the wake of the humid and bizarre sounds of the first album, but this time there’s more confidence, more density, the voices overlap and intertwine in enchanted spirals, the microphone is passed between one song and another.

The new ease is already evident from the first track, Pest, which begins crawling slowly and then explodes in the second part, making us understand from the beginning that the Goats have no intention of lower their guard; Badibaba has a cheerful and playful chorus that reminds us of a world of masks and nursery rhymes, while Once Again splits between a fast-paced, rolling rhythm and a sleepy reggae. In P.T.S. Tea Rosy Bones tells a personal, unpleasant incident with a dumb man, taken as an example of the harassment suffered because of people inappropriately curious about their gender identity, sometimes touching on aggression:

There’s something in your eyes

They’re looking for the prize, that’s not me

Don’t look thеre now

Don’t burn me later

The emotional peak of the record is reached with Sad Cowboy – the first single from the album -, a track that charms and fills with melancholy from the very first listen. The synthesizers envelop and drag us into a vibrantly coloured world like the one pictured on the cover, with Lottie Cream performing what is perhaps one of her best vocal performances ever: her warm and delicate voice, at times monotonous in a fascinating way, whispers lyrics that speak of disillusionment and loss of contact with reality, a feeling that we have all had abundant experience and that, perhaps for this reason, hits straight to the heart with particular intensity, leaving an indelible mark. The theme of the environment, more current and urgent than ever, is the protagonist of The Crack, which illustrates a dystopian future in which humans move en masse to another planet after making the Earth completely uninhabitable.

Frame from “The Crack” videoclip, directed by Molly Ann Pendlebury

Mental health becomes the cornerstone of the next two songs, Closing In and Anxiety Feels, sung respectively by Lottie and Ellie Rose “L.E.D.” Davies: in the first one, Lottie describes anxiety as a ghost that slipped through my bones, enters and controls everything, both body and mind; in the second one, Ellie reflects on the pros and cons of anxiolytics: on the one hand she would like to take them, on the other she’s afraid of anesthetising and becoming numb, but the sense of confusion and helplessness always remains:

Please don’t leave me alone

Staring out the window

I know I should get out the house

Make myself useful

Follow the syncopated rhythm of They Bite On You, the engaging pop of Bang and then Where Do We Go From Here?, a detailed description of Boris Johnson’s ideal dissection, which materialises and brings to the surface all the rottenness that lies within each tory; finally, the album ends with the elegant A-Men (which for the second time sees Rosy on vocals), full of crystalline ringings and guitar solos reminiscent of the evanescent oriental melodies.

On All Fours is the product of a band that has grown from all points of view, first and foremost the musical and the human one. Goat Girl have clear ideas, they have matured and know what they want to talk about and how to transform their thoughts into sounds capable of painting fantastic landscapes: despite the various obstacles that have shown along the way, they haven’t let themselves be discouraged and have made a second album (generally considered the most difficult) which is a little gem, full of integrity and sensitivity; an accurate snapshot of our time and the difficulties we’re all going through as youngsters, women, queer – with particular attention to the situation in the UK -, but also a small time capsule full of hope and wisdom for those to come after us.

Oggi recensiamo… Goat Girl – “On All Fours” (Rough Trade, 2021)

di Agnese Alstrian

Negli anni successivi alla pubblicazione del loro primo album, le Goat Girl sono cresciute tanto: da giovani sperimentatrici in erba che esordirono con un album dalle sonorità misteriose e affascinanti, con testi prodotti durante l’adolescenza che inglobavano temi pubblici e privati, si sono evolute verso territori più profondi e maturi. Nei tre anni che dividono Goat Girl da On All Fours, la band ha affrontato battaglie personali, sperimentato con gli strumenti, si è impegnata in varie forme di attivismo, ha attraversato l’isolamento della pandemia: in questo secondo disco è evidente la crescita individuale di ogni membro del gruppo, che attraverso la musica e le parole esplora ambienti sia all’interno che fuori di sé. I testi di On All Fours parlano di esperienze soggettive, di ambiente e catastrofi climatiche, di salute mentale, di politica, della società in cui viviamo; musicalmente, si continua sulla scia dei suoni umidi e bizzarri del primo disco, ma stavolta si avverte più sicurezza, più densità, le voci si sovrappongono e si intrecciano in spirali incantate, ci si passa il microfono tra un brano e l’altro.

La nuova disinvoltura già si avverte dalla prima traccia, Pest, che inizia strisciando lentamente per poi esplodere nella seconda parte, facendoci capire sin dall’inizio che le Goat Girl non hanno intenzione di abbassare la guardia; Badibaba ha un ritornello allegro e giocoso che ci ricorda un mondo fatto di maschere e filastrocche, mentre Once Again si divide tra un ritmo incalzante e rullante e un reggae sonnolento. In P.T.S. Tea Rosy Bones racconta una sua personale, spiacevole vicenda con un uomo ottuso, presa ad esempio delle molestie subite da gente inopportunamente curiosa della sua identità di genere, a volte toccando l’aggressività:

There’s something in your eyes

They’re looking for the prize, that’s not me

Don’t look thеre now

Don’t burn me later

(“C’è qualcosa nei tuoi occhi / Stanno cercando il premio, non sono io / Non guardare lì ora / Non bruciarmi dopo”)

L’apice emotivo del disco si raggiunge con Sad Cowboy – il primo singolo estratto dall’album -, una traccia che ammalia e riempie di malinconia sin dal primo ascolto. I sintetizzatori ci avvolgono e ci trascinano in un mondo dai colori vibranti come quello raffigurato in copertina, con Lottie Cream che esegue quella che forse è una delle sue performance vocali migliori di sempre: la sua voce calda e delicata, a tratti monotona in modo affascinante, ci sussurra un testo che parla di disillusione e perdita del contatto con la realtà, una sensazione di cui tutti abbiamo fatto abbondante esperienza e che, forse proprio per questo, colpisce dritta al cuore con particolare intensità lasciando un segno indelebile. Il tema dell’ambiente, più che mai attuale ed urgente, è protagonista di The Crack, che illustra un futuro distopico in cui gli umani si trasferiscono in massa in un altro pianeta dopo aver reso la Terra completamente inabitabile.

Frame tratto dal videoclip di “The Crack”, diretto da Molly Ann Pendlebury

La salute mentale diventa il punto cardine dei due brani successivi, Closing In e Anxiety Feels, cantati rispettivamente da Lottie e da Ellie Rose “L.E.D.” Davies: nel primo, Lottie descrive l’ansia come un fantasma che attraversa le mie ossa, entra dentro e controlla tutto, corpo e mente; nel secondo, Ellie riflette sui pro e contro degli ansiolitici: da un lato vorrebbe prenderli, dall’altro teme di anestetizzarsi e di diventare insensibile, ma resta sempre il senso di confusione ed impotenza:

Please don’t leave me alone

Staring out the window

I know I should get out the house

Make myself useful

(“Per favore non lasciarmi sola / A guardare fuori dalla finestra / So che dovrei uscire di casa / Rendermi utile”)

Seguono il ritmo sincopato di They Bite On You, il pop coinvolgente di Bang e poi Where Do We Go From Here?, una dettagliata descrizione dell’ideale dissezione di Boris Johnson, che materializza e porta a galla tutto il marcio che si cela dentro ogni conservatore; infine, l’album si chiude con l’elegantissima A-Men (che per la seconda volta vede Rosy alla voce), ricca di tintinnii cristallini e assoli di chitarra che ricordano le evanescenti melodie orientali.

On All Fours è il prodotto di una band cresciuta sotto tutti i punti di vista, in primis quello musicale e quello umano. Le Goat Girl hanno le idee chiare, sono maturate e sanno di cosa vogliono parlare e come trasformare i loro pensieri in suoni capaci di dipingere paesaggi fantastici: nonostante i vari ostacoli che si sono presentati lungo loro il cammino, non si sono lasciate abbattere e hanno realizzato un secondo album (generalmente considerato il più difficile) che è un piccolo gioiello, carico di integrità e sensibilità; un’accurata fotografia del nostro tempo e delle difficoltà che tutti noi stiamo attraversando in quanto giovani, donne, queer – con particolare attenzione alla situazione in Regno Unito – ma anche una piccola capsula temporale piena di speranza e saggezza per quelli che verranno dopo di noi.

Today we review… Shame – “Drunk Tank Pink” (Dead Oceans, 2021)

by Agnese Alstrian

Baker-Miller pink is a particular shade of pink with a strong calming power: scientific studies show that the vision of this colour helps to slow down the heartbeat, to breathe more regularly and to release muscle tension. Its other name, “drunk tank pink” derives from the fact that it was – and still is – used in some detention centres after several experiments proved that prolonged exposure to this colour also made the strongest and most hot-headed prisoner as weak as a cooked spaghetti. Quite casually and without knowing its properties, Baker-Miller pink is the colour chosen by Charlie Steen to paint the walls of his new room, once back from a very long tour that kept him and his bandmates busy for almost three years for the promotion of their first album.

Anyone who knows a minimum of their story will know for sure that Shame have been playing together since they were kids, and that Songs Of Praise (released in 2018) was the product of their experiences and discoveries in an adolescence spent between pubs, stages and the streets of the lively south London. That first album imbued with wit and anger that had been so successful had consecrated Shame to “UK’s most exciting new band” and had set them up with a task that, both in their enthusiasm and freshness, they were well determined to carry out. Nearly two hundred concerts later – in four different continents – the band found themselves dealing with one thing you forget about when you’re on tour: standing still. At that point, starting to appreciate the company of oneself again and the normal routine had become a mission. This is where pink comes in: once back in London, Steen moved into an old industrial laundry that he transformed into a bedroom; all he wanted was pink walls to recreate the comfortable environment of the maternal womb, and for this reason Charlie renamed the new accommodation “the womb”. When the renovation was completed, he retired there, determined to come to terms not only with the ordinary, but also with a whole series of thoughts that the time spent around the world hadn’t allowed him to elaborate (“We toured a long time and we felt we missed out, […] we were like tourists in our own adolescence in a way”). Inside that pink belly, Steen began to appreciate the common mortal’s life’s slowness, but above all to get used to loneliness, assisted by the relaxing effects of the walls’ colour. Obviously the process wasn’t without its difficulties, and it’s in these cases that the best thing to do is to write about it: as soon as the Songs Of Praise chapter was closed, Charlie began to write down the lyrics of the following album which, in honour of the place where it all started, was called Drunk Tank Pink.

The album consists of 11 tracks that follow each other in a rapid dynamism, reassuring in its own way cause it makes us understand that, despite the various ups and downs and the three years that have passed, Shame have always kept intact the relentless energy that has distinguished them since the beginning. The first track of the new album is Alphabet, which with its excitement and the words screamed in the ears gives an excellent start to this second chapter, a typical Shame-branded punk track that makes us feel immediately at ease and curious about what awaits us. Follow Nigel Hitter, lively and unusual for its singular funky rhythm, and the chameleonic Born in Luton, with its fascinating tempo changes. Looking at the lyrics, we cannot fail to notice a change of course: the sharpness and subtle malice of Songs Of Praise leave room for a new introspective maturity, and if in the previous album the prevalent pronoun was “you”, this time there is the predominance of the “I”. It’s evident that Steen used writing as a means of self-analysis, of self-understanding, of exploration of his thoughts; he talks about isolation, stasis, loneliness, estrangement:

I’ve been waiting outside for all of my life

And now I’ve got to the door, there’s no one inside

No matter how complex this path of introversion is and no matter how scary some thoughts are, we can always count on the comfort and protection of our favourite places; in Charlie’s case, it’s his pink room, which makes a special appearance on March Day:

In my room, in my womb

Is the only place I find peace

In the wake of Nigel Hitter‘s funky exuberance there’s Water In The Well, a song with a bizarre and frantic pace, with choirs screaming at each other confusing words, while Steen tries to make his way to express his disorientation:

We all got lost somehow

I tried to find myself but I

Lost the map and now I’m all burnt out

The half of the album begins with the initial riff of Snow Day, on a syncopated and fast drum base, the work respectively of Sean Coyle-Smith (who has also just returned from a period of analysis, however of his own guitar technique, with renewed and more adult sounds) and Charlie Forbes, instruments that in this record are particularly enhanced by the impeccable production of James Ford (who boasts in his curriculum names such as Arctic Monkeys, Gorillaz, Declan McKenna, The Last Shadow Puppets, Florence + The Machine… a novice, in short). This time Charlie Steen recites a spoken monologue, in a deep voice, rising above the music, and we can almost imagine him right on the hill from which he’s speaking to us, surrounded by snow and wind, dispensing pearls of wisdom:

They say don’t live in the past

And I don’t

I live deep within myself

Just like everyone else

And now a little gem, personally my favourite of the whole album. Human, For A Minute has been played live by Shame since 2018, times when they introduced it as “untitled” and, since the unveiling of the Drunk Tank Pink tracklist, I’ve been waiting impatiently for the moment to hear it for the first time in its studio version. The latter is totally different from the one the band has made us listen to so far and, to be honest, I fell in love with it from the very first moment: from an energetic and rhythmic song, with guitars reminiscent of a U2’s 80s rock and with Steen and Josh Finerty screaming into their respective microphones, has transformed into a refined slow, soft and vibrant ballad, a genre absent in Shame’s production thus far, with Charlie almost whispering in our ears, begging to be able to feel human for even a minute. But the unstoppable and rapid Great Dog, followed by the equally irrepressible 6/1 and Harsh Degrees, breaks through the dreamy atmosphere and inaugurates the second punk act of the record.

We got it, Drunk Tank Pink wasn’t an easy record: born from the desire to find landmarks and get back down to earth, written and recorded with confidence and excitement during relatively normal months; once ready for publication, abruptly dampened by a pandemic and finally revealed to the public that was anxiously awaiting it at the beginning of a year even more uncertain than the previous one. But what Drunk Tank Pink wants to convey is that creativity receives the best boost in moments like these, and that we must not let the weight of bewilderment and alienation crush us. Rather, we must adapt to whatever situation lies ahead and learn to appreciate the company of ourselves, to understand and listen to ourselves. At the end of the album there’s Station Wagon, with Steen accompanying us with a hoarse and monotonous voice in a feverish flow of consciousness:

I need a new solution

I need a new resolution

And it’s not even the end of the year

We all need to move on, to get out of the fog, to find new solutions to problems that we never thought we would have to face; only by learning to become flexible and re-educating ourselves to listening and patience we’ll be able to find a balance, and maybe even arrive at unexpectedly wise epilogues right for us, such as the (poetic) conclusion to which Shame come up with:

Happiness is only a habit

And if that’s true

Then I am habitually dependent on

Something I cannot control