Sore Throat Blood Blister

The people are ugly

Do you miss beissline ...

At the book fair in Rome alone I laughed long and I've seen the future of music in front of the stand Castelvecchi.
There was a book on the artist's "street" Banksy and to the left, a cover with a girl who bites into a vinyl. It looks like the cover of a disc of the 80s, I thought. In fact, the girl's hair frisé, which was the very beginning of that decade.

Once entered, that once opened the first page you come across in the first chapter title: The people are ugly . It is a mistake, but the transposition of the free title song of The Doors, People Are Strange . And people who met the author in his vinyl shop in Turin are really bad .
What makes people bad? The only succumb to a passion, which is to discard all the others and to live life to the supreme eternal pursuit of the instant in which you are sure to have her put down, this passion. Which will never happen. In this case, the demon is materialized on disk, or better, in everything that the disc has the same meaning in the 20th century. From here the strangest questions that customers are the two owners of the record store:

"He's got Amafun ?"

"What?"

" Amafun of those guys, those of the wall "

Panico.

" You mean The Wall by Pink Floyd? "

" Yes, but I tried Amafun "

Panic 2.

"Maybe The Dark Side of the Moon ?"

"And, come on, that guy."

"Buy records of dead people?"

"In What do you mean, dead or dead musicians who sells it? "

Thinks.

Both.

"Morricone was one of the Chameleons, are you?"

"I was trying to do something Eastern-league

" Like what? "

"He has this gazebo?"

"You bet!"

"Behold, I assume Gazebo, but without the voice and easternmost"

"Got it. We have nothing." (*)

Maureen Blatt's description, the author-seller-demiurge-psychoanalyst makes to its customers goes beyond the smiling bonhomie that reserves of who happen to stumble Mattoccia ungrammatical. This is tough people, tried by life, who chose in their own lives to give themselves to one or more kinds of music, the venerable vinyl hidden from girlfriends, wives and children.

I've always been afraid of the record stores.

When I was younger I spent part of (my) meager income in LP (there were no CDs, and even the Internet) may be transferred to cassette tapes - was the era of the stereo dark dark record player with transparent lid, radio, amplifier and recorder to a plate or two and two speakers on the side, that if you were wrong to push a button you spent the next hour trying to understand why the disc is not to issue any sound - Every time I entered in the record store was a slight pain, and I could not understand why. Now, after reading this book, I understand.

The record stores are the last bastion of religion that is to extinguish. I feared unconsciously, going in and seeing all those shelves full of vinyl, that if I dipped my hands (in the book is listed as "do the beaver") would be incurred in the wrong section of staff in the expressions of sympathy. Maybe it was not true at all, but the idea of \u200b\u200bpulling out a disc and was too overwhelming to feel inadequate. Would prefer not to ask anything to the staff behind the counter, fearing laughter. I first documented and went without fail, how to do it with towels. It The last record of the Mohicans there is this continuous dialogue between the maniac of discs (or "cage" in the sense that he escaped from a mental hospital) and the seller of the discs themselves, which sometimes tries to escape before to manifestations of madness, sometimes soothes the discomfort of our customers were letting go of vinyl "healing" - the "second of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club " occurs frequently in the pages - at times it is moved and maybe buy the miserable collection of a poor waiter conned into bankruptcy and that he wanted to compose both heroic verse.

In the description of the surreal life of a seller of vinyl ( Nick Hornby in his High Fidelity tackles a similar theme, but there is a musty record store becomes a metaphor for the life of a man who can not change), Blatt says so irresistible a sad concept : that man is nothing without passion, but in the same way the passions are those which help to kill him. The man, because almost no woman is told as he tries or sell the discs - if you exclude un'esagitata girl who breaks out into crazy when the insults are rejected his LP - women are put in the background as wives angry and desperate collectors "monkey with the vinyl, or achievements non si sa quanto vere a suon di David Sylvian da parte di loschi figuri con

cravatta da agente immobiliare, con un nodo grosso come un pugno di Bud Spencer, basette stile tangenziale, con rientri e sfumature sulle due gote, ochiali da sole tirati sui capelli (in pieno febbraio) e mocassini da aperitivo in centro.(*)

Come mai non ci sono le donne? Blatto non si dà spiegazioni - e nemmeno Hornby - ma temo che una donna preferisca apprezzare la musica ascoltandola, piuttosto che stipare in una stanza centinaia di pezzi di plastica neri ciascuno dentro due buste (quella interna bianca viene called "pants", not by chance). Many men prefer to entrust what little 'which is their life accumulating objects, including disks. Or perhaps, more simply, women are not allowed to spend on the frying pan (for frying, yes).

Even today, when I walk past a record shop - real ones, not the chains that sell the same CD - I feel a vague sense of anxiety. I miss beissline , as one of the most beautiful stories, of which there is a reading with musical accompaniment by the Offlaga Disco Pax :

The songs marked with (*) are taken from Last of the Mohicans disk, Mauritius Blatt, and Castelvecchi, 2010