Fuliggine psichedelica.
Questa potrebbe essere la chiave di lettura del nuovo disco dei tre sparuti geniacci del post-moderno in musica.
Sfarfallii elettronici di beats contagiosi spiazzano e scompigliano, uno spoken word ispirato, talvolta, viene seccamente amputato da una bellissima melodia vocale pop, ma diretta con ingegnosa e strategica stravaganza.
Altrove, uno spartito per organo viene capovolto e filtrato, ritmato allo scopo di condurre ad una danza epilettica e generalmente cerebrale.
“Ten” riserva, nel corso della tracklist, piccole sinfonie lo-fi che ondeggiano tra hip –hop graziato e maledetto ad indie rock di matrice americana, da certo pop sperimentale (prendete per esempio Amnesiac dei Radiohead) all’elettronica ambient diabolica e creativa degna del catalogo Warp e, in particolare, dei Boards of Canada.
Qui, l’equazione suono=spazio si affila sempre più ad ogni ascolto. Qualcosa tace, cauterizza per un attimo i tumulti e risuona dolcemente, quasi sussurrando, voci di alieni dediti agli stupefacenti.
“Ten” non è altro che il paziente a cui i cLOUDDEAD (sì, scritto proprio così!!!), chirurghi autodidatta, promettono cura e devozione prossima il più possibile all’ ineffabile. Ed ecco che basta pazientare e dal pastiche allucinogeno si giunge, piuttosto improvvisamente, alla carezza. Un’irrinunciabile carezza dal profumo di violetta. “Dead dogs two” è un incontenibile giro di danza digitale e smaccatamente irresistibile nel refrain (che ricorda quasi inspiegabilmente gli ultimi Yuppie Flu, ma con maggiore istinto).
Ma nell’allettante luna park dei cLOUDDEAD si celano anche, mai abbastanza a dir la verità, influenze filmiche e granelli sonori di Angelo Badalamenti (sentire “Rymers’s only room”), ormai entrato di diritto tra i compositori più influenti per i musicisti che si avvicinano a certe determinate atmosfere. E così dal diamante popedelico (“Son of a gun”) fiorisce un involontario(?) omaggio alla new wave più dark in salsa elettronica (“The velvet ant”), dall’Hip Hop sfaccettato e meno convenzionale (“Rifle eyes”) germoglia una filastrocca di psichedelia moderna (“Physics of Unicyle”) che frigge una tiepida aria primaverile.
I cLOUDDEAD godono di una splendente grazia: uccidono qualunque modello e categoria senza lasciare una minima traccia e/o riferimento del loro passaggio. E riescono nell’impresa di essere Serial killer delle voghe apparendo invidiosamente tendenti. Di costume. Dunque, non ci sono parole che riescano almeno solo a sfiorare la lucidità e l’attendibilità nel descrivere questo serbatoio di idee e concentrato di follia (intesa come coraggio artistico), ma una cosa a me è chiara. Questo è un grandissimo disco (il primo, e ahimè ultimo loro, grande del nuovo anno). Da perderci il sonno e la testa. E il fatto che sia una produzione artigianale (come il gelato) fa si che lo si preferisca senza esitazioni a certi artifizi di natura esclusivamente mercantile.
Elenco tracce testi e samples
01 Pop Song (05:47)
It's the wood man and his splintering self.
It's the wooden woman and her hollowing out
Sickly Micky Mouse.
Skinny Minnie Mouse.
Elvis, what happened ?
Pop Sickle note: The lable stapled a speaker
to the back of a sheep's throat.
Tongue depressor with the width
With the width of a spatula
Supresses all syllables;
"blah blah blah", end quote.
Cotton cotton candy, Cotton cotton candy... spun any way you like it.
Elvis, what happened?
High school picture day in L.A.,
someone in the sky with diamonds.
And you go back to bed
with a dead dog in your head.
How can I be your lover
when you sport a head of rubber?
Sucker...
You can't take applause to bed with you.
I've got my own blood and a decent depression line.
And then we say "fuck" in our pop song.
06 Rifle Eyes (03:53)
a murder of mosquitos, and moths, and gnats
ravage the florescent flickering ribs of a motel lot flood light.
their frantic trajectories perfectly sketching insane in it's halogen corona.
no collision... no drinking of bulbs at long last...
just a paniced moon drove dance they bang their insect eyes and mind at in the dark.
note: it takes an extended stay
america's common black self cleaning line of ants
approximately 1&2/3rd's hours to completely excavate
the fresh kill carcas of a large new orleans cricket.
point: minnows have teeth in their throats
thrice we passed this truck all packed with pigs...
this truck is always packed with pigs.
you can not tell nor ask a pear tree
that it might only have the bird's nests happen to its branches.
have you ever marveled through the pretty pith of your turned around eye
at the bug blood gut modern art on the fender of your country crossing rental van?
it then becomes self evident
that nature is responsible...
to peel deer from desert fun...
to sleep through vulture mouths...
it's femur like a chopstick through the paper.
nightcrawlers all dried up on the summer sun sidewalk.
an ant with a little bit of leaf looks like an ant with an african mask.
the red raw salmon steak in the gas station urinal.
a full feathered dead pigeon with its entire skull exposed.
a single long stemmed rose resting between two mounted antlers.
a spider spitting web on a styrofoam snowman's head.
car salesmen asleep in their cars on lunch-break under the highway onramp.
the x-ray of someone's tumored skull left to scream doom from the gutter
with all the other preventative waste, no name no face.
all the oil drills on some sick sedated rhythmic robot.
rape mode like brain-washed flies at a carcass.
the highway shoulder dead dog's fly devoured eyeballs,
as garnish to a four lane state road.
and all the southern cali orange trucks headed to somewhere there's winter.
one armed men changing tires in the shoulder
for pretty ladies and their well dressed daughters;
engine oil boiling, undercarriage eaten by a billion ants of rust,
bacteria gang-banging in the window cracks.
a single long stemmed rose resting between two mounted antlers.
07 Dead Dogs Two (03:59)
From the height of the highway onramp
We saw two dogs, dead in a field
Glowing on the Oakland Coliseum
Green seats wasteland
Dogs, dogs we thought were dead
They rose up, rose up when whistled at
Their rib cage inflating
Like men on the beach being photographed
A guard dog, guard dog for what, for what
Against tofers ellis penniless athletic fanatics
Getting into games through a whole in the fence
For the owners of the blue tarp tent
Pitched by a creek, beneath an onramp
In the privacy of the last three
Skin and bony tree, devoid of leaves
And us undeceased and our new cd's
Dippin' on goodies, Oakland
(Chorus):
It's hard to stand the sight of
Two dogs dead under a sky so blue
You have to stop the blood to your head
To fit the breath in front of you
We secretly long to be some part of a car crash
Long to see your arms stripped off the tendons
The nudity of swelling exposed vein
Webbibg the back of your hand
To be a red-tendoned dog
To be red-tendoned dogs
Blood breathing by the side of the highway
I long to be dead
Center of a curious crowd
To be touched
Sticky, like nearly dried paint
Their soft silent stare nursing your face
Anticipating the slightest pinch I flinch of pain
Everyone blank in accident awe
As the car crash fiberglass dust
Straight up settles on your raw muscle tissue
(Chorus)
To be a red-tendoned dog
To be red-tendoned dogs
To be red-tendoned dogs
To be red-tendoned dogs
To be dead center of a curious crowd
Against my misery
I don't think I've seen my screeching pain
I can now feel what's around us
It is some sort of harmony
The harmony of overwhelming murder
09 Physics of a Unicycle (04:16)
orville and wilbur
cold cut
the anchor's from their ankles,
carving
propellers from whale fins
in the back of a bicycle shop...
and thus begins the tale
of the thumb trigger
cloud kill.
at last the wright's reinvented
the horse with wings,
another invention
only fit for a mannequin.
early time machine's
will have tended to leave you
left screaming
on a dinosaur's dish.
in da vinci's 'bike accident',
an outerspace whodunit?
monkeys play magellan
as the next ex-edison,
standing out
in the crowd
with a unicycle.
physics of a unicycle...
twice the remarkable.
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