Horror, punk and vampire aesthetics, i.e. i damnedhistoric and heroic English punk band, but also a restless and tormented creature with a gothic-rock soul, perfect for staging such a tremendously cinematic, noisy, romantically decadent, fast and danceable show which, beyond its dramatic narratives , of the undead and the grim reapers that rage on stage, spurs us to reflect on those who are the real monsters – often with an absolutely banal appearance – that influence our near future for the worse.
Today we even hear talk of a possible use of atomic bombs, the last act of a despot who, by now, feels cornered or the inevitable culmination of years of aggressive and imperialist policies – pursued, first of all, by States United States, China and Russia, in a more or less authoritarian way, in a more or less subtle way – which, unfortunately, are now reaching their deadly climax?
It is evident that the various actors look, above all, at their own global, economic and internal geopolitical interests, just as it is also evident that Putin is suffering from an alarming delusion of omnipotence and that he has lost contact with reality for months. It was always Mr Edward Hydeeven if here in Europe and especially in Italy, the political class, in its entirety, from right to left, has preferred to see him as the reassuring and calm Dr Jekyll and maintain convenient and profitable human, professional, political, economic and financial relationships with him, even reaching the extremes, inconvenient and foolish winks of Berlusconi and of Salvini.
“Beauty Of The Beast”, thus open the damned their show, the beauty of the beast that, with its rubles, has bent every European nation, from Germany to Italy, from France to Great Britain, before the hearse of the damned of punk took us back in time and made us relive the drama of the mass graves, the massacres, the carnage, the missiles, the bunkers and the violence suffered above all by the weakest, by women, by the elderly and by children. It is precisely that coffin which, fatally, opens, letting Dave Vanian can appear on stage, in the guise of a modern Nosferatu, represents the return of ideologies that we believed buried in the ashes of the twentieth century, but they, instead, return with arrogance under the mortal guise of the many illiberal despots who continue, undeterred, to exercise their iron control over the masses, repressing every right, every protest , any criticism and not hesitating, for their crazy, unscrupulous and petty interests, to cause tensions and wars. Power-sick individuals who lose all empathy towards their fellow men, isolating themselves in their slogans, their lies, their farce referendums, their nuclear threats, their aberrant and extravagant concepts of God, country or family, aware of the fact that there are those who are willing to listen to them, there are those who are willing to believe them, there are those – even here in Italy – who are willing to justify their choices and actions, because the true strength of Evil lies, above all, in its ease, in its simple solutions, in its infantile and instinctive attitudes.
Meanwhile i damnedin harmony with the fantastic, anarchic and rebellious dimension of their concert-show, attempt to forge a more structured and complex collective thought, a thought that can overcome partisan interests, the simplistic theories spread by compliant media, interested only in their own audience and their own commercial revenues, who do not hesitate to give space to men and women who, for their own personal ends, spread mystifications that go so far as to overturn the role of the attacked and the aggressors, the perpetrators and the victims, the wolves and the sheep of this and every other war, thus deciding to play their perverse role in what is a cursed circus of horrors.
And to think that, from the past, we could have taken much more, we could have looked at the desperate need for humanity of the vampires of Bram Stokerrepresented with musical mastery by damned. We could have been enchanted by the “Bela Lugosi” dei Bauhausmindful of a dark, maternal and loving magic, a star of brilliant and hopeful melancholy which, with its poetic presence, accompanies our sleepless nights, our lunar existences, our silent souls, without ever interrupting that thread that crosses the ages , the thread that runs through the lives of Dantefrom William Blakefrom John Miltonof the Doorsfrom Mary Wollstonecraftfrom George Gordon Byronfrom Giacomo Leopardiof the Joy Divisionof the Careof the Depeche Modefrom Siouxsie Sioux and passing by the Palladium Theater in London, where i damned they lift the hypocritical veil between the worlds to show us the living and the undead, to show us the raw and brutal reality and all those bewitching fictions that are, instead, only narcotic drugs and restricted virtual prisons.
And meanwhile “Plan 9 Channel 7”, “Standing On The Edge Of Tomorrow”, “Grimly Fiendish”, “Absinthe”, “Under The Floor Again”, “13th Floor Vendetta”, “Eloise” break down any physical distance with the public: zombies are among us. We are the zombies and those cut throats, from which the sound of our voice will never come out again, but only the echo of opinions, suggestions, arguments, commands imposed from above, are our poor throats. We cut them off ourselves, each other, every time we gave credit to stupidity and now we just have to participate in this ignoble, sad and desperate farce, whose sole purpose is the chaotic superficiality that will allow Evil to flourish and spread, using, as vectors of flesh and blood, the dogs of war that have always existed in every age. And so, in the end, war will take everything away from us, as it did with Cecco Angiolieri…
I’am come of ostrich lineage,;
standing in the innkeeper, because of great hunger:
for of a corset I made my own food,
eating it all with hammers and ferruzzo.
And I’m so done that I don’t get a smell,
but sweeter than a pig with acorns:
if I ate the clothes, the truth spreads,
I no longer have a piece of furniture or a hoard.
But he left me a ruff,
who has to give me a drink just once,
and Manderolla with a row doublet.
I don’t count the spear, it’s taken from me;
but the table with the brain
they go down my throat, and are already giving the time.