IIn just three years of publishing activity, Quaderni del Bardo Edizioni by Stefano Donno are starting a new publishing adventure of international, or rather intercontinental, scope. Thanks to the resourcefulness of the Director of the Accademia Italiana Pellegrini (link at the end of the press release), Doctor Ilaria Bisanti (a true Salento native) who lives and works in Brazil as director of the Accademia Pellegrini, and the desire to export Italian culture abroad of the publisher Stefano Donno, here comes the first ebook on Amazon Kindle. And here comes The Doors, heading for the next whiskey bar: Giuseppe Calogiuri's book, becoming an ebook for Brazil and for all readers in the Portuguese-speaking world. This is an initiative born in the spirit of carrying forward for the publishing house an idea of a literary community that activates collaborations and promotes culture beyond the Italian borders. The initiative met with the approval of Dr. Ilaria Bisanti who wanted to take action also for the future in a collaboration that will bring the interested authors to make themselves known in the multicolored, multiethnic and multicultural land of Brazil.
“It takes courage. Yes, it takes a lot of courage to ask me to write a foreword to a book about a band from the 60s. Because, even to you who are reading, what is the first thought that comes to mind? Definitely one of those unbearable, slow, insipid, hippie, pacifist, freaky bands like the Mamas & Papas or Jefferson Airplane (I'm sure of it). Fortunately, even in those terrible years from a musical point of view, some light emerged from the darkness. And, perhaps, one light above all others, that of The Doors! And it is of this light that this book speaks to you. Better yet, he'll tell you about it. And Giuseppe Calogiuri, knowing this weakness of mine, was able to find the right tool and courage. But, perhaps, it is necessary to proceed in order… On January 4, 1967, The Doors released their first self-titled album. This is not just any year, 1967 will mark the history of the United States, first, and of the entire Western world, later. For several years now, Washington's armed forces have been fighting an unofficial war far from home. From the beginning of his presidential term, the “progressive” John F. Kennedy began taking the boys of his country and throwing them to the other side of the world. The Golden One (to quote The Human League), the son of a family that had become disproportionately wealthy thanks to the illegal alcohol trade, plunged the United States into the mud of Vietnam. His successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, continued the work. Indeed, he took it to its extreme consequences. On August 7, 1964, the U.S. Congress – by approving the HJ Res. 1145 (known as the “Tonkin Resolution”) – gave the President a blank check to rush troops wherever he deemed necessary. It is the beginning of the imperial presidency. It is also the beginning, in effect, of compulsory military service for young Americans. That fresh meat is needed. It is essential for fighting in the swamps and jungles of Southeast Asia. In 1968, 500.000 soldiers were deployed in Vietnam (with infiltrations also in Cambodia and Laos to chase the Charlies). In this climate, universities are the institutions that, more than others, are affected by the war. The boys who “win” the evil lottery of conscription have only three choices: 1) accept the draft; 2) escape, perhaps to Canada (like Jack Nicholson); or 3) choose the path of conscientious objection. The third is a difficult choice, it puts you outside of society and, for this, it takes enormous courage. A sports champion at the peak of his career will repeatedly refuse to enlist and on June 20, 1967 he will be found guilty of treason. That man was Muhammad Ali! A new way had to be found. And here music will be fundamental as a means of aggregation for all those who wanted to do something. 1967 will give the West Coast of the United States the Summer of Love and the Old Continent the push for student revolt, which will begin in Europe in May of the following year. The spark that started at the University of Berkeley, in California, will become a living flame in other universities, to transform into a fire in Paris. The Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967 will be the pretext that will allow students to unite, compare and grasp all the signals that artists like Jimi Hendrix or The Who spat from the stage. Signs that, in one way or another, meant anger. Well, The Doors are both children and instruments of that anger and of that American society that is confused and terrified by its own leaders. A society that saw its political myths fall with the assassination of Kennedy, or its sporting myths with the arrest of Ali, and that continually sees its children leave for distant and unspeakable places only to return in boxes wrapped in the stars and stripes. A generation of young people and adolescents who are increasingly taking refuge in drugs. Maybe new drugs like LSD, which open new doors. And these doors are those already narrated by William Blake and that Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek, Robby Krieger and John Densmore will make their own and cross with the arrogance, recklessness and anger of age. Arrogance, recklessness and anger that cannot but be shared and embraced. Embracing also from those who, like me, grew up with and in punk, first, and in new wave, later. A triad of values and feelings that all together reside in that first recording and that, here, Giuseppe Calogiuri analyses and describes with absolutely enviable technical wisdom (at least for those who believe that once you know two chords you can and should form a band!). What you have in your hands is not yet another booklet about the Los Angeles band, no. These are pages that will take you a step forward on the path to understanding a fundamental album. An album with real gems. And some are wildly gothic gems: how can we not mention the dazzling beauty of The Crystal Ship. A piece that, due to its clear reference to Celtic legends, would have certainly made the members of the Victorian Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood fall in love. The cold, wet oozing pain of End of the Night or the incestuous blood that flows from The End. This last piece cannot fail to recall Truman Capote's In Cold Blood and for which, above all, I'm sure, the Ink King Nick Cave would have sold his soul to be able to write a murder ballad like that. Well, that's enough now, no need to add anything else.
Article published on 29 October 2018 - 11:54
