Primus, nonsense di fine secolo

Dalla tradizione di Freak tipica della San Francisco degli anni sessanta , escono i Primus. Siamo ormai nel 1990 ma il gusto per il grottesco e il nonsense comico non è tramontato, ha solo assunto tinte più fosche e nichiliste…

Tommy The Cat

I remember as if it were a meal ago

Said, Tommy the Cat as he reeled back to clear
Whatever foreign matter may have nestled its way into his mighty throat
Many a fat alley rat had met its demise
While staring point blank down the cavernous barrel
Of this awesome prowling machine

Truly a wonder of nature this urban predator
Tommy the cat had many a story to tell
But it was a rare occasion such as this that he did
She came slidin’ down the alleyway
Like butter drippin’ off a hot biscuit

The aroma, the mean scent, was enough
To arouse suspicion in even the oldest of
Tigers that hung around the hot spot in those days
The sight was beyond belief

Many a head snapped for double even triple
Takes as this vivacious feline made her
Her way into the delta of the alleyway
Where the most virile of the young
Tabbys were known to hang out

They hung in droves
Such a multitude of masculinity
could only be found in one place
And that was O’malley’s Alley

The air was thick with cat calls
(No pun intended)
But not even a muscle in her neck did twitch
As she sauntered up into the heart of the alley

She knew what she wanted
She was lookin’ for that stud bull, the he cat.
And that was me
Tommy the Cat is my name and I say unto thee

Say baby, “Do you wanna lay down by me?”

La musica è fragorosa, dura e incredibilmente strutturata, i tre sfoggiano una perizia tecnica formidabile, sono proprio i testi, a volte lunghissimi a significare…nulla… Riferimenti pop presi dalla TV, dai cartoni animati,dai B-movie, con i quali il californiano medio riempe la propria vita. Durante il periodo del flower power, i testi trattavano di concetti alti, di futuro, di speranza, oppure, dall’altro lato, di depravazione, di violenza, di droghe, temi ormai scomparsi nell’America di questo ultimi anni del ventesimo secolo, rimossi.

Jerry Was A Race Car Driver

Fire her up man Jerry was a race car driver, he drove so god damned fast
He never did win no checkered flags but he never did come in last
Jerry was a race car driver, he’d say “El solo number one”
With a bocephus sticker on his 442, he’d light ‘em up just for fun
Captain Pierce was a fireman, Richmond engine number three
I’ll be a wealthy man when I get a dime for all the things that man taught to me
Captain Pierce was a strong man, strong as any man alive
It stuck in his craw that they made him retire at the age of 65
GO
Dog will hunt
Jerry was a race car driver, 22 years old
One too many Camparis one night and wrapped himself around a telephone pole, go
Ad un ragazzo californiano di provincia cosa poteva interessare di Jerry?!? Figuriamoci ad uno europeo. Però molti, per noia, avranno guidato con qualche campari di troppo in corpo, magari qualcuno avrà anche fatto qualche corsa clandestina nei sobborghi industriali disabitati a notte fonda. Esaltante no? Poi arriva captain Pierce, ed il  tutto diventa meno esaltante, soprattutto raffigura la squallida vita di molti dei possibili ascoltatori, deboscio giovanile, lavoro, pensione…oppure un palo per finire più in fretta…

My Name Is Mud

My name is Mud
Not to be confused with Bill
Or Jack or Pete or Dennis
My name is mud and it’s always been
‘Cause I’m the most boring sons-a-bitch you’ve ever seen
I dress in blue-yes navy blue
From head to toe I’m rather drab except my patent shoes
I make ‘em shine, well most the time
‘Cept today my feet are troddin’ on by this friend of mine
Six foot two and rude as hell
I got to get him in the ground before he starts to smell
My name is MudMy name is Mud, but call me Alowishus Devadander Abercrombie
That’s long for Mud so I’ve been told
Told that by this sonsabitch that lies before me bloated blue and cold
I’ve got my pride, I drink my wine
I’d drink the finest except I haven’t earned a dime in several months
Or were it years
The breath on that fat bastard could bring any man to tears
We had our words, a common spat
So I kissed him upside the cranium with an aluminum baseball bat
My name is Mud

Forse decenni di testi farciti di retorica progressista avevano un po’ stufato, punk docet…e se la linea non c’era più, figuriamoci un senso…Tanto vale intessere una canzone su un umile blu collar ma non per epicizzarlo, i tempi di Phil Ochs erano passati, quanto per ritrarlo nella sua insignificanza, a partire dal nome Mud, o come vogliate chiamarlo, non ha importanza, molti nomi genuinamente americani, Butch ad esempio, non significano un bel niente…