TPP - London, UK @ Push Bar | photo : Adrian Nettleship

 

宇宙是一团高分贝迷幻

作者: 胡凌云

先说说The Psychic Paramount。 他们在那天晚上十点摸上了台,突然发出了一声巨响,令我们永远记住了这个名字。

纽约三人乐队The Psychic Paramount两年前就在欧洲巡演(根据官方网站,那是乐队组建不到一周后发生的事件),发行现场专辑,摄制短片,如今,他们依然没有唱片公司和经纪人,正式发行的作品都刻在Ritek牌CD-R上,而且,根据乐队网站介绍,已经全部脱销。

还好,我在现场买到了乐队的Origins and Primitives Vol.1。这张专辑给人的第一印象,是温和的、纯粹的实验性。比如,第一首作品的名字叫Solo Electric Guitar with pre-recorded drums。这种命名方式,完全可以令你的脑海中闪过一串二十世纪先锋作曲家的大名。这首作品中预先录制的鼓声如同在空旷的火车车厢里听穿过隧道的回响,而音高连续变化的吉他则绵延着模拟电子乐器的旋律。

在现场,这类作品往往在速度和力度上极尽狂暴。吉他/贝司/鼓威风凛凛、颠覆性十足的合奏,让我想起当年在北京见识的Sabot。不过,这支乐队的妙处是,有时你甚至不能确定乐队的演奏和他们的声音有什么关系。比如,专辑中暴戾的The Eyeglass/Sex Operation听起来象一支全力出击的乐队, 但音响洪水中的三件乐器是鼓,风琴和磁带机。在现场, 鼓手使用了装有放大器的接触式麦克风,另外两个阴谋家使用了loop effects 踏板,所以,即便没有磁带机, 但我却似乎听到了它造出的幻象,躲在一阵阵啸叫的声浪后面,是将要复活的机器。当时没来得及录音,但如今听他们2002年的欧洲现场专辑,还是被这种声响窒息。这支乐队在现场的能量是令人敬畏的,而且彻底离经叛道——和他们相比,后面上场的日本人简直就是在复古。

乐队显然是依赖于传统电声乐器的——这也是当晚两支乐队关键的共同点。Echoh Air 稳定的节奏,跳动的细密音符, 全是由多轨的电吉他叠加而成的,在高潮的时候听起来宛若老式风琴的即兴华彩。长达十多分钟的Microphone 2,也是依靠单电吉他的混响和环绕效果,营造出玲珑的、疾速的空间感。它们不是噪音,也并非舞曲,仅仅用声音的堆叠,就创造了属于流水线和高速路时代的迷幻。

在现场,我还买了Sabers的唯一专辑Specter。这是鼓手Jeff Conway和Charlie Hines的乐队。录音师Martin Bisi也来自纽约,而且合作者名单有诸多名人:Sonic Youth, John Zorn,Keiji Haino,Swans, Bill Laswell, Golden Palominos,Fred Frith和Brian Eno等人。这是一张操作取代了演奏的实验CD。他们显然是在探索乐器、音箱和麦克风的开放式回路——一个天然而莫测的效果器。该乐队显然是在撰写一本声学应用的手册。没有吓人的引子,甚至没有节奏,在缓慢变化中令人迷醉或是颤栗。这就是传说中的Drone?

 
 

ORIGINS AND PRIMITIVES

Review in SPIN magazine – February 2007

This prog-core power trio makes the Mars Volta sound like Phil Collins-era Genesis, such is the Paramount’s pounding heft, guitar histrionics, and complicated menace. (Check out 2005’s amazing Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural for the full story.) This double CD is essentially an archive of Paramount guitarist Drew St. Ivany’s ovoid guitar experiments from before the band existed. Save for a few grimy demos with drums, disc one echoes and reverbs like Philip Glass ringtones. Disc two’s electro-acoustic shimmer is chill-out music for basement show geeks. - JOE GROSS

 
 

Skyscraper magazine

THE PSYCHIC PARAMOUNT
Origins and Primitives Vol. 1+2 CD – No Quarter

The Psychic Paramount goes after only the biggest fish. With their debut, Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural, they made a monster, a sprawling, omnivorous, instrumental force that blasted through decades of rust in search of something raw and primeval. Though not a true follow-up, Origins chases the same targets but with different weapons. Composed of material recorded prior to Gamelan, these two discs show a band bent on exploring the barest structure of their maximalist architecture, using only a guitar, various loops, and, on one track, organ. The opening jam, “Solo Electric Guitar with Pre-Recorded Drums,” rides a rolling, serrated drone that expertly evokes the free-form collaborations of Fripp and Eno. Other tracks employ in turn brittle, repetitive riffs, clamorous static and cyclic, hypnotic noodling with the same sure command, calling to mind most of the heavy hitters of minimalist, conceptual or experimental music: Faust, This Heat, Terry Riley, and a few others. But this isn’t mimicry: The Psychic Paramount understand the shamanistic power of sound, the ways forceful music (or musical force) can tap into oceanic energies that register directly with the crocodile mind. Stripping things down has only made the power of the edifice more apparent, like exposed beams on modernist buildings. This band knows it’s onto something massive; more importantly, it knows that everything else is unimportant. (Reed Jackson)

 
 

The Psychic Paramount  Live 2002 The Franco-Italian Tour
Public Guilt, 2006 - Tiny Mix Tapes review | Rating: 5/5

Why is this a perfect record? Because it's an infinite, sweaty, and filthy mess is why. Ever see or hear a great live performance and then hear the same material given the studio treatment and felt like something's missing? Well, this is the first Psychic Paramount I ever heard (this disc is actually a repressing), and I can safely say: great band, but you HAVE TO buy them live. That's right, this is a gun. So's this album. Blow your own brains out, kid. Fuse them back together with modeling clay and toothpicks and jam it all back in the skull. Dig on the rest of the CD. Let it dig on you. All kindsa dirt-rain goin on here. Unevenly sized dirt-rain. Sideways dirt-rain. Even dirt-rain that seems to come straight up under the neath!

Spiky and chaotic, this is one of the best rock albums ever, because it takes all of the imagination and piqued rock-out savvy of previous band Laddio Bolocko, throws it at a roaring jet turbine, and everybody gets good and hurt. Everybody loses an eye. Some of this material is also on the group's debut album, Gamelan into The Mink Supernatural, which - I was surprised to hear - still retains that spiking-in-the-red sound quality (or maybe I just don't have a powerful enough stereo). So which do you buy? I'd suggest this one. It's decidedly more of a ragin' off-road experience, though both will equally steam-press your face flush to the back of your head -- no bs. Both releases sound as if someone was in a big hurry to hit the record button and to engineer it could only slowfade the shit in and out. Both releases feel like some massive, innate rock energy just barely contained by the wincing nearby mic sensors. The Franco-Italian Tour is a freak force of nature, even at its mathiest. The "Perpignan Pt. Two" half of the fourth track is a punchy good example of this side. Expanded for the title track of the studio album, the song works like a wall-pressed breaking news bulletin on TV. Only the stabbing alert trills just keep drowning out the actual report (I picture those blocky Wonder Showzen anchormen with all the twitching gauges on them). 

Can't pretend to have the key to perfection. Don't really need to. Psychic Paramount's got the powder keg to blow that particular fortress wide open. Maybe the perfection within will be obliterated -- or half-obliterated -- but we'll get the general idea. Perhaps perfect is never making the listener question what it is they're listening to. Perfect is putting out two albums of roughly the same material, because these feel more like super high-pressured combustions than compositions. It's immediate and miraculous rock that doesn't say: wait'll you see what we got next. Instead this is the best parts of the most raucous rock anthems charging into the face of a tornado. But maybe The Paramount will have something better down the line. It makes no difference to me. They've come out of the gates at what I assume to be the very top of their game. Come into close, combustible (i.e.-loud) contact with this stuff and you'll be as ready to jump out of your skin with excitement as I am. (Don't get too cozy in the silence between tracks four and five!)  - willcoma

 
 

 : LIVE AT THE TALKING HEAD REVIEW – BALTIMORE CITY PAPER - DEC. 6, 2006

Hard and Soft Machines       

Prog is back. This may not be news to you longtime math-rock fans out there – or to the millions who buy Tool, System of a Down, and Mars Volta records – but we’ll still pretend we’re kinda surprised for rhetorical purposes. As local opener Hymnen pulled serious concentration faces and worked its epic and intricate indie-rock time changes and dramatic vocal turns – “They’re all about… togetherness.” an audience member noted – the Talking Head filled up with a mix of hipsters, metalheads, and, weirdly, more preppy college kids and girls than you’d ever expect could be roused for a night of what a friend neatly summed up as “drug music.” Maybe a whole generation that grew up staring at Dad’s Roger Dean posters is finally coming of age.

The Psychic Paramount is made up three unassuming looking dudes from New York – two of whom used to be in the late, lamented, and little-heard Laddio Bolocko – who set up their basic guitar-bass-drums in traditional garage band formation and then proceeded to make a mockery of just about every heavy rock, neo-psychedelic, and otherwise loud and complicated band currently operating. Their amps weren’t even that big – and they don’t bother with vocals, ‘cause you wouldn’t have been able to hear them anyway.

See, thing is, Psychic Paramount’s music doesn’t feel complex because it’s so brutish. Frizzy-haired guitarist Drew St. Ivany’s hands were a constant blur – not in the neck-choking way a thrash guitarist’s would be during a solo, but a stream of strums that bled into a wall of silver-tinted feedback – and his short, angry solos sounded like My Lai field recordings subjected to academic slice and dice. On record, these are cool noises, possibly explained away by studio fuckery. Live, it’s straight what the hell? territory. Being stuck at the back of the club meant you couldn’t see whatever array of pedals St. Ivany had brought with him, but in a way you didn’t want to know what technological alchemy he was using to make this racket. At times his snarl and spray was loud and overwhelming enough to make you forget basic life-skills, your ATM pin number, and where you parked.

The bearded rhythm section of bassist Ben Armstrong and drummer Jeff Conaway played air traffic controllers, keeping the constantly shifting – and long, and probably at least partly improvised – songs from just swirling overhead. PP is as much of a body unit as a head trip, with Conaway filling the spaces around his stadium-rock stomp with cymbal crashes, and Armstrong’s bass was felt as much as heard. Some of the music’s most exciting moments came when Armstrong would shift from a low, formless rumble to an outright, sawn-off melody cutting through the guitar spuzz. There’s a moment in “Para5” – it sounds like a tape splice on the band’s 2005 Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural – where the band fucks with you by cutting to dead air just as it’s about to reach crescendo. Live, everything just stopped – literally just a millisecond pause for breath – before St. Ivany’s guitar roared back in on a dime and left you grinning and drenched. Memo to all other rock bands: Quit now.

After that, just about anything was gonna be a step down.

 

Live in Allentown, PA 4/28/2005@ Jeff the Pigeon

 

Rad Company
– cuts

The Psychic Paramount - Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural

The Psychic Paramount make psychedelic music, so we're going to pick a psychedelic drug that most closely resembles their style to make this review more clear. This is not your mom's shrooms. This isn't the music you would hear in your head if you were tripping the day away at your local park, watching the blueprints of the universe being refracted through the public fountain while blowing on a dandelion to watch the seeds of life you've just released into the breeze and on their way to the horizon of the future. Uh-uh. This is that nasty, thick-ass white blotter stuff that is laced with speed you bought off that dirty mechanic that lives on a houseboat. Not only that, you've regrettably taken five tabs too many because you wanted to make sure it would work. And now your in the back seat of your friend's older brother's Camaro on the way to some bonfire party out in the woods, hanging on to the "Oh Shit!" handle above your head, watching the burning witches racing beside you. And for once in your life you just want to send one word to God: "uncle".

O.K. Maybe it's not as intense as that flashback. But The Psychic Paramount are a marathon of mind-melting musical anxiety. An instrumental three piece comprised of rock essentials, they form one hell of maelstrom of free-acid-rock jamming that hardly ever loses it's wind. Like hard acid, they create a storm that takes control of all senses and then pushes the listener into new, unexpected sensations. The downside is that sometimes they hold their grip for too long, draining nerves until they are completely used up and desensitized, like the point in a trip where your brain kicks off and you just stare at the cracks in the wall.

"Megatherion" opens the salvo with a stream of backwards distortion, pushing the recording forever into-the-red. The drum and bass lock up on the next track ("Para5") and box each other around a tight and dirty loop, creating a canvas for the guitar player to sling his fretboard sweat and blood onto. The guitar player (Drew St. Ivany) is fucking W!CK!D. There are about a thousand tiny ideas for new songs packed into each one of his guitargasms. This is the post-rock you've always thought might have been out there, but none of your friends had turned you onto it yet. It doesn't daydream for half the song or meander through an ambiguous intro like it's many cousins. These drugs kick in immediately.

The Psychic Paramount also waste no time explaining themselves and tip their cards of influence right in the title (Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural). Along with Xiu Xiu, they are hopefully a new crop of indie rock musicians tapping the vein of gamelan music for some much needed fresh influence. The magnum opus on this album, "Echoh Air" fades up through the floor with a sinister revolving bass line, while the drummer counter measures cymbal smashes that create the state of beautiful confusion that is gamelan. Yet the most important aspect of gamelan music has been overlooked by these guys. Dynamics. Yeah, sure, there's a few quick explosions from complete silence, but gamelan is more about tension and sudden unexpected releases. These two groups may be the first to shoot up the gamelan vibe into the mainline of indie rock and we can only hope that future groups take note. While the replay value of this album deteriorates quickly, it is a must hear due to its ambitiousness.

Also, like the Oxes, this is indie dude rock. I'm thinking of inventing a new musical ratings scale, sort of like a Ph meter, that shows a recording's sexual preference. This is at +4. That's pretty acidic for female ears.

 
 

Acid Reign
by Brent Burton

Washington City Paper
May 27, 2005

Were it not for the din of disco-punk, the underground’s other retro fixation du jour might be more noticeable. Granted, new-millennium psychedelic rock is a comparatively low-stakes aesthetic. But for every LCD Soundsystem, Le Tigre, or Out Hud, there are just as many bunches of hipsters who want nothing more than to envelop you in a purple haze or blind you with the sunshine of their love. Among the new breed are critic-feted folk-poppers (Joanna Newsom, Animal Collective, and Dungen), groundling-adored amp abusers (Comets on Fire, Sunn 0))), and D.C.’s own Dead Meadow), and even a Santana-loving commercial success (the Mars Volta, of course).

You might chalk this up to our rather late-’60s-ish political climate. After all, it’s easy enough to imagine that sanguinary Republican administrations make bohemians see paisley. Yet none of the aforementioned acts are particularly protest-minded—that is, if they sing at all. For many, I suspect, it’s a curiosity about indistinctly mapped musical margins, not anger toward Dubya, that’s fueling the fixation. The less generous would call it obscurantism; others would argue that passage of time has lessened the era’s baggage. Either option would go a long way toward explaining the popularity of the druggy Nixon-era reissues currently being pimped by every cool record store from San Francisco’s Aquarius to New York’s Other Music.

It’s probably safe to bet an original copy of The Piper at the Gates of Dawn that at least one of the guys from New York power trio the Psychic Paramount has frequented the latter’s Psychedelia section. More likely than not, it’s frontdude Drew St. Ivany, a long-haired, needles-in-the-red guitarist who is obviously well acquainted with the heftier elements of late-’60s and early-’70s acid rock. On his band’s improv-heavy, all-instrumental debut, Gamelan Into the Mink Supernatural, the fuzzed-up six-stringer leans hard on his whammy bar (“Para5”), jams along with his own echo (the title track), and—duh—conjures that extra-wasted vibe by recording some stuff backward (“Megatherion”).

 

TPP - London, UK - photo by Adrian Nettleship

 

But like the most imaginative of their peers, the Paramounters are no mere revivalists. St. Ivany’s frequently herky-jerky riffing also betrays a youth spent scouring the SST Records catalog or some similar claim to punk geekdom. And it would be downright neglectful not to mention some of his tighter, more machinelike lines, most likely left over from the guitarist’s late-’90s tenure with Can- and Neu!-influenced math-rock outfit Laddio Bolocko. On the six-minute “Echoh Air,” for example, he’s sometimes so precisely repetitive that his parts sound like tape loops—especially against the unhinged-seeming rumble and flail his bandmates whip up as accompaniment.

In this, the rest of the group is utterly single-minded. Throughout Gamelan, bassist Ben Armstrong, another Laddio Bolocko alumnus, channels the spirit of Jesus Lizard–Êstyle postpunk, chugging out surly, blues-free riffage apparently ad infinitum. And drummer Jeff Conaway bashes at his kit as if he knows not the meaning of the word “restraint”—or “genre,” for that matter, given his tendency to let rocky passages blur into jazzy ones and vice versa. More than anything, though, the Psychic Paramount’s rhythm section just sounds angry. Definitely not the kind of guys who would dig what Mom and Dad dug. “Incense and Peppermints”? Forget it. Some unknown “proto-metal” reissue on the Aquarius-approved Akarma label? Bingo.

Still, Gamelan comes across less like a collection of rock numbers than a free-jazz-style blowing session—an impression enhanced by the fact that there’s no singer and no singing. Mind you, the record is about as likely to be mistaken for New Thing as it is for real Indonesian gamelan: Sonicswise, it has more in common with ’60s alt-rock than with either of those styles. But the album is nonetheless informed by nonrock notions of tension-building and melody-carrying—an approach that’s been favored by forward-thinking heads for decades. In this sense, St. Ivany & Co. are traditionalists in the very best sense: In applying the recombinant spirit of the past to the sounds of the present, they’ve made a record that couldn’t have been released at any time other than right now.

...A friend who works as a soundman with some of the biggest luminaries of disco-punk recently tried to convince me that everything has been done before—that this is the dawn of a new era of “postoriginality.” He’s wrong, of course: Rock is healthy enough to glance over its shoulder without spewing out simulacra. “House of Sun” ain’t gonna to convince anyone of that. But “Seadrum,” just like the entirety of the Psychic Paramount’s debut, would make for a mighty fine case in point.CP

 

TPP - London, UK - photo by Adrian Nettleship

 
 

INTERZONA  
Napoli, Italy 

La cult band americana di scena al Sanakura (9 dicembre) nell’ambito della rassegna ::: CIRCUITI 2002 ::: di supporto ai Dat Politics. Il commento di Enzo Salegna ed Emanuele Olibano. Foto di Lucio Carbonelli.

- The Psychic Paramount e Dat Politics: lo stato sublime dell’arte. (Enzo Salegna:)

Da restare atterriti! Siamo al CBGB, al Knitting Factory, al Sanakura o altrove? A New York o Napoli? Mi sono chiesto in apertura di concerto degli Psychic Paramount. La risposta è stata Napoli ma vi assicuro che il live della band newyorkese ha saputo catapultarmi indietro nel tempo, nella capitale dell’omonimo stato americano, lasciandomi immaginare quello che forse provarono solo coloro che ebbero la fortuna di vedere, ed ascoltare innanzi tutto, per la prima volta, i mitici Suicide, ovviamente fatte le debite proporzioni ed i dovuti distinguo per la strumentazione usata. 

E come forse avrebbero fatto solo Alan Vega e Martin Rev, i due ex Laddio Boloko, Drew St.Ivany (chitarra) e Ben Armstrong (basso e chitarra), band seminale dell’underground a stelle e strisce, complice l’ex batterista giapponese degli Nmperign, Tatsuya Nakatani, hanno incendiato il piccolo locale partenopeo con una performance intensissima e senza fronzoli, folgorante, fatta di white noise, scorie industrial, decostruzionismo no wave ed al solito, blues urbano, destrutturato e maciullato, quello con il quale New York ha sempre avuto un rapporto molto viscerale (chi si ricorda dei Surgery, tanto per fare un esempio?). Si, perché sono convinto che quanto dichiarato nel 1980 da Alan Vega (“non ho mai ascoltato nulla di avanguardia e non ho mai pensato di fare musica d’avanguardia. Per me si è sempre trattato solo del blues di New York City”) potrebbe valere anche per gli Psychic Paramount, anzi sono certo che, potendo, loro confermerebbero. 

 

Ben Armstrong NYC | photo: Aran Tharp

 

Laddio Boloko meets Nmperign, dunque, per una proposta delirante ed avantgarde nel suo incedere free form, forte dell’attitudine dei Suicide e dell’impatto degli Swans di Filth, soluzione esplosiva a caricare la miccia della micidiale bomba d’apertura, un devastante attacco noise-core degno dei migliori Naked City di Torture Garden reso ancor più arrembante ed “accecante” dal faro bianco letteralmente sparato in faccia agli astanti, a fare terra bruciata di tutto quanto abbiamo ascoltato negli ultimi anni. Di certo, un ideale ground zero dal quale attendersi buone nuove per il futuro del rock, ennesimo grido sofferto ma liberatorio partorito dalla big apple volto a sublimare l’Arte fuori da schemi precostituiti, affrancandola dalle avvilenti gabbie del music-biz. 

Detto questo, che dire di Drew St.Ivany impegnato nello stuprare la sua chitarra, addirittura gettata con non chalance ai piedi del pubblico prima di allontanarsi momentaneamente dal palco, perso tra cavi, pedali ed elettroniche di ogni sorta ma sempre pronto a dare il via ad impennate soniche di mirabile forza e vigore? O della straordinaria potenza esibita dalla sezione ritmica che ha mostrato un batterista che dire eccezionale è poco o di Ben Armstrong, abbigliato con con lenti scure e copricapo tipo ultimo Alan Vega (una strana coincidenza?), che nel corso dello show ha anche imbracciato la chitarra prima di suonare uno dei pezzi più intensi e dilatati del concerto, risultato essere qualcosa di molto vicino allo struggente lirismo dei Godspeed You Black Emperor, prima di tornare al basso? Beh!, a mio avviso, sublimi e definitivi, non c’è che dire, ed un concerto straordinario, difficile da far rivivere attraverso le parole, costituito da una sola impietosa suite di 45’ che ha meritato il lungo applauso degli astanti, unico e giusto tributo per questi impagabili figli degeneri dell’America del capitalismo e della globalizzazione, parti involuti di quegli alienanti sobborghi metropolitani che ancora bruciano e si ribellano allo stato delle cose.

The Psychic Paramount estetica punk e indomito piglio rivoluzionario. Li attendiamo fiduciosi alla prova dell’album ma gli ingredienti per far gridare al capolavoro ci sono tutti!

In conclusione, mi preme fare un solo appunto: non è possibile che in una città come Napoli siano così poche le persone che partecipano ad appuntamenti Altri che dovrebbero essere invece di grande richiamo per chi ama l’Arte che si fa Cultura attraverso la continua ricerca, la pura immersione in una dimensione diversa che rifiuta il compromesso e che, all’insegna della più Alta libertà d’espressione, si fa fucina di idee e volano di continuo rinnovamento del pensiero. Vanno bene i Tiromancino ma chi non vuole chiudersi prospettive di crescita, che questi saltuari eventi targati Wakeupandream innegabilmente offrono, dovrebbe reagire non solo con le parole. Non è possibile che questi concerti sappiano solo coinvolgere gli ormai sempre meno estimatori di certe sonorità e non essere catalizzatori degli interessi, tanto per dire, dei tanti universitari che pur affollano il capoluogo campano.

Non è possibile che lo sforzo di questi tre giovani partenopei, e mi riferisco ai componenti di Wakeupandream, decisi a far passare per Napoli ciò che ogni altra capitale o città d’Europa sarebbe accolto o meglio accoglie con ben altro interesse e calore, debba essere frustrato da un atteggiamento paranoico e poco aperto al confronto con il nuovo e che, in buona sostanza, può solo determinare appiattimento ed inaridimento culturale. Non è possibile … lasciamo perdere! - succoacido,IT

 
 

SUICIDE / THE PSYCHIC PARAMOUNT - Roma, Classico Village, 6/12/02

Considerati a ragione un gruppo di culto grazie a quell’album d’esordio che, a 25 anni di distanza, graffia e annichilisce ancora, i Suicide arrivano nella capitale attesi da una schiera di appassionati, memori di live set estremi che, a quanto si dice, causavano l’estromissione brutale del duo newyorchese dai locali della Big Apple. Ovviamente la serata romana è stata ben diversa, a cominciare dai gruppi di supporto: in primo luogo la grande sorpresa (almeno per me) del ritorno degli A-10, storico combo punk/r’n’r devoto al verbo detroitiano/australiano (vale a dire Radio Birdman!), che ha proposto una serie di brani nuovi, comunque fedeli al loro stile, e una bella cover dei Velvet Underground. La formazione è rimaneggiata, ma la classe si sente eccome, ragazzi miei! Il secondo gruppo è situato su tutt’altro versante, il nome non mi dice nulla: The Psychic Paramount; poi scopro che sono alcuni ex Laddio Bolocko, che ricordo essere una buona band. E infatti il suono non è dissimile: avant rock con echi crimsoniani, ardite sperimentazioni, asperità chitarristiche e qualche momento psichedelico finiscono per dividere gli astanti fra entusiasti e indispettiti. Giunge infine l’ora dei Suicide: un’ovazione continua per loro, che sorridono e scherzano e stringono mani; sono sempre dei grandi, non c’è dubbio, ma non ci si può aspettare qualcosa di stravolgente poiché anche le basi musicali e i suoni di Martin Rev sono meno "agghiaccianti" di una volta, diciamo più moderni. In ogni caso buone le versioni di Rocket USA e Cheree, altalenanti i brani dell’ultimo cd, in definitiva poche rivelazioni e la certezza di aver visto un duo che invecchia con dignità. - Italo Rizzo