KINA - Troppo lontano e altre storie (ristampa)

In a time not even that long ago, weighing in on any given topic required, if not actual expertise, at least a genuine interest in the subject at hand: that peculiar habit whereby everyone can/must voice an opinion on everything, at every opportunity, to fill a void rather than to add anything of substance, had yet to take hold. In the arts, and especially in music, this translated into an often Manichean logic of opposing camps, like the now-fossilized divide that pitted "engaged" songwriters against "intimist" ones. The advantage of this rigid boundary was that it produced true professionals devoted to a given cause: Phil Ochs didn't write personal songs just as Eric Andersen didn't write political ones, yet both were so good at their respective crafts that no one ever had reason to complain.

In a country like Italy, dominated by a militant culture that has seeped into just about every aspect of social life, the dividing line was merciless: contemptible pop music to coddle the emotions, pompous singer-songwriter fare to settle one's conscience. An unsettled phase like adolescence, the primal engine of rock'n'roll, has never had any right to exist here: childhood innocence gave way directly to a pre-adult age in which one had to choose between becoming a conformist or a rebel. A sensitive, introverted young man, in a reality like that, was more often than not doomed.

In Turin, Italy's own Prussian Detroit, a city where only the thick-skinned survived, the problem took on tragic proportions in the early '80s, when far-reaching movements capable of protecting a lost generation began to dry up. Hardcore, of which the Piedmontese capital was the foremost national epicenter, arose precisely from that need: perhaps that's why, in a working-class city physiologically riven by political tensions, it took on an entirely original shape that was, paradoxically, hardly "Turinese" at all. Bands like Negazione or Nerorgasmo, while not shying away from frontal assaults, began distancing themselves from slogans to embrace a poetics that was angry, yes, but aimed at the torments of the individual rather than the distortions of the system: social critique served to denounce the inhuman condition of countless alienated kids, rather than to incite molotov cocktails and P38s. Something was still missing, though: that melody which, in the collective imagination, is the crowning glory of Italian music. Direct and emotional as it was, that music still remained too "hard" for many a lost soul.

The solution came from a trio that, while belonging to the rich Piedmontese scene, hailed from the last place you'd expect to find a punk band: Aosta. An isolation that must have helped Gianpiero Capra, Sergio Milani and Alberto Ventrella develop their own idiosyncratic modus operandi, in open defiance of everything Italian music had ever solemnly and cynically been: struck by lightning from Hüsker Dü, they forcibly imported their twin intimate and melodic nature, coining an adorably broken-English response to it. Naive and anguished, charged with youthful fervor, terrified by the passing of time and the indifference of the world, their rough-edged elegies blew a healing sirocco over the punk scene of the day, reassuring more than one loser that you didn't need to go underground to have a soundtrack played at full volume.

Welcomed with full honors at the court of Blu Bus (Stefano Giaccone would also become tied to the trio as an external member), they marked those difficult years with a handful of albums that have aged more than gracefully, sparing us their prophesied fate of having to "die of nostalgia": at the very least, "Irreale realtà" (1985), "Se ho vinto, se ho perso" (1989) and "Parlami ancora" (1992) remain among the most authentic and necessary episodes in Italian rock, nonetheless managing to win significant acclaim across Europe, all without ever betraying their native tongue.

Thanks to a reunion and a documentary, the Aosta band's catalogue has recently returned to the spotlight, with a resulting flurry of reissues. Originally released in 1996 and conceived as the band's final statement, "Troppo lontano e altre storie" collects material of varying origin and vintage, mostly acoustic: besides reproducing in full the 1987 single of the same name and the 1989 mini-LP "La diserzione degli animali del circo" credited to Kina & Howth Castle (with Lalli & Giaccone, featuring among other things a fittingly apt cover of Social Distortion's "It's The Law"), it adds outtakes, alternate versions (don't miss the stripped-down rendition of the anthem "Questi anni", Mould-esque at its root) and the previously unreleased "La strada dei vetri". Though partial and fragmentary, it's a worthwhile way into the imperfect art of these tender-hearted rebels, back on the scene wilder than ever. Cercando, sempre cercando…

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12/07/2019