Mombu + Hobocombo

A genuine breath of fresh air for all the killjoys out there. Us included, obviously. We assume you're all well acquainted with the concept of "killjoys." The kind, to be clear, that Lo Stato Sociale, from the heights of their impressive interdisciplinary culture, mock with a sly: "You're not Lester Bangs, you're not Carlo Emilio Gadda, it's hard to even understand what the hell you're writing, your taste is crap". That's exactly the kind of "killjoys" we mean. The kind who, at a gig like this, in the company of some fifty connoisseurs — some sporting impossible-to-find David Tibet or Fugazi t-shirts — while yet another biblical downpour hammers down on Rome, find themselves thinking: "This is exactly the kind of music that makes me feel good. Assembled, reworked with care, handled well, put together with real originality, once again set apart from a past that feels ever more overbearing and looming." Are we asking too much? For now, while we wait for Albi, Bebo and Lodo to maybe answer us, let's get on with telling the story.

Rome's Mombu return with an expanded line-up for this show at Circolo del Artists: the festival hosting them is called Viva! (and will also feature six other bands), is funded by the Romaeuropa foundation and curated by Pino Saulo of Battiti (Rai Radio3). Alongside the two masterminds, Luca T. Mai on baritone sax and m'bira and Antonio Zitarelli on drums, we find a guitarist and a percussionist. A more than eagerly awaited return to Rome for the former ZU member, charged from the very first moments of the evening with a kind of sibylline tension and attention, a diffuse buzz that turns into frenzy and a rush toward the stage as soon as the four of them appear under the red lights.

Let's take it step by step, though. It's always good to talk about Hobocombo, tonight opening with a forty-five-minute set, and there's always plenty worth saying: skilled, original and eclectic. And good to look at too, which never hurts. Francesca Baccolini, almost hidden between microphone, music stand and double bass, remains just as magnetic in the gestures of her playing, taking up and putting away her bow, or bewitching as she crafts vocal lines that feel almost Fraser-esque.

Andrea Belfi's drumming is varied, entertaining and convincing, able to range — even within the same track — from rock to jazz to avant-garde. And Rocco Marchi, moving between lap steel, guitar and Korg, is undoubtedly the more acid, spacey side of the group.

What comes out of it is a captivating, engaging performance, in which the Quartet Of Happiness flirts with radical acts like Fifty Foot Hose and Les Maledictus Sound, but also flashes of the western-tinged mood of our own Ronin. Straddling cult status and sweetness, introspection and fun, invention and quotation, they prove to be artists hard to pin down — and therefore, without doubt, still very much a work in progress.

Between tribal invocations and unconditional surrender to "crossover" as a way of life, Mombu perform almost the entire setlist in recording order, but they do it with a drive and a cohesion that the record only half captures. Fittingly, over an hour-long set the God of Storms (no night was ever more fitting to play under such a monicker) gives the impression that, a couple of albums from now, he could be ready for Greg Anderson and Stephen O'Malley's Southern Lord. Especially now that his range is beginning to broaden beyond mere doom-sludge-drone specialization, as the dogma dictates. He amplifies the sulphurous haze of Sunn O))) or the sheer name-dropping of Boris toward primitive instrumental openings (but also toward an apocalyptic transmutation of Brian Fahey's era-defining genius, the one behind "At The Sign Of The Swingin' Cymbals", to be clear), which, at their best moments, spark pagan dances among some of those present.

It hardly matters if every so often the sonic impact turns more rhythmic and less deafening. The rhythm section pushes the sound into swampy jazz-metal territory, letting the two guests' hypnosis be repeatedly breached by avant-rock obsessions. The sheer interaction between the musicians on stage is traced back to the very roots of Afro-American exploratory expression. Fire!, Mats Gustafsson and Sepultura, all together passionately. So take a deep breath before the next show starts: total immersion is mandatory.

Photos by Massimo Monacelli.

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