Following the finest Hunter S. Thompson doctrine, I won’t waste time telling you what Animals is or who Pink Floyd are, or who was playing there in 1977. I’m not a real journalist, I’m just a Pink Floyd fan from the moment my ears began to understand what a song actually was.

That said, I find myself obliged to put down in black and white the obvious reasons why Animals is the best Pink Floyd album. I’m forced into it because of certain friends, as they have somehow managed to fire off the whopper that Wish You Were Here is the best Pink Floyd album instead, committing several crimes in rapid succession. It goes without saying that, when I talk about Pink Floyd albums, I’m referring to the real ones: the ones with Syd Barrett in the van, and then the ones led by Roger Waters at the steering wheel. Once Waters left the band, Pink Floyd lost 90% of their face value, artistic wise. I can hear someone shouting Venice? That made it worse. If, in order to make up for the absence of Waters, you need to put together a band with more than ten musicians and send them to Venice on an inflatable to distract the audience from the real show…

(This article is going ahead without a risk assessment, I know.)

Let’s carry on now. We brush Syd aside — whom we all love — we brush aside Piper at the Gates of Dawn and we put it among the greatest psychedelic albums ever, so nobody gets impatient. Then we carefully remove everything in between the Cow and the Secrets. Right, now we’ve got the Famous Five: The Dark Side of the Moon (the most beautiful album in the history of music), Wish You Were Here (the luckiest album in the history of music because it followed the most beautiful album in the history of music), Animals (Pink Floyd’s best album, if you know Pink Floyd), The Wall (a thing on its own), and The Final Cut (an album of staggering beauty, made when anyone else would’ve gone on holiday to the Bahamas with a suitcase full of royalties).

I’m not wasting my free time here explaining why Wish You Were Here is an album for people who are scared of trying life for real, for those who get all romantic with a guitar on the beach, or for those who, sipping a glass of wine on their sofa at home, listening to Shine On You Crazy Diamond, start thinking about the bills they need to pay first, and next holiday to book on AirBnb.

No, I’m here, and I’m quite pleased to be here with you, here to clarify that Animals is the best Pink Floyd album. Here are, and all verified, the essential points of my truth:

Animals is authentic. It says what it thinks. It doesn’t hide. It sounds caustic, closed-off, oppressed — because that’s exactly what it wants to howl; it feels suffocated, closed-off and oppressed for real. The pigs and the dogs make it so. Mason’s kick drum and snare and the whole kit lack highs, every piece sounds muffled and full, refusing to let anything breathe. Nobody wants you to breathe while listening to Animals.

“Big man, pig man!” is a clear representation of human rage, as well as a phenomenal entry line. What song begins in a way as polemical/fierce/explicit/anarchic as Pigs? While everything else circles around syncopated, clean, vicious, doesn’t it almost feel like the sound is torturing those pigs right there, forcing their faces down in the pit they love? We drag them down into the abyss, we make them shit themselves a bit, then, and deservedly so.

Historically, it was 1977. Animals is educated, it’s punk (someone would say), it’s rock, it’s truly a pleasure for the ears from start to finish.

Reading Animal Farm (Orwell’s, not “Old MacDonald”) is the best thing one can do alongside the existence of Animals by Pink Floyd.

Pink Floyd are still four, they record everything themselves and all together, and there’s only a handful of extra guitars; other than that, it could have been recorded live, take one.

Like a perfect sandwich, the beginning and end of the album are handled by the beautiful Pigs on the Wing, and Heaven please punish anyone who mistakes it for a love song. Social love, yes. Socialism? Perhaps. We’re talking politics here, not romantic nonsense. Let’s move on.

Shall we deliberately ignore the lyrics — dramatically — and focus only on the music? The four Pink Floyd members give their absolute best with every single instrument. Everything precise, everything carefully selected, every note, every drumstick, every silence, every phrase, every sheep, everything locked in, together with the musician right beside you, who cares if said musician is really getting on your balls, on your nerves. Gilmour and Wright splash out gorgeous guitar and Moog parts, and piano, and Rhodes, and everything else they got available. The bass — whoever was holding it matters little — is some sort of handbook on how one should play an electric bass, in that context, in that year. The bass on Animals tells the story of the second half of the Seventies in England without saying a single word, yet clearly spitting a few fucks, with a distinctive British English accent. The bass on Animals rejects America and has a go at Thatcher, prophetically. And with all this going on, the drums support it in practically every argument, every explanation. It’s that mate at the pub or in the office who doesn’t let you feel alone while you rant through all your reasons for being mad as hell. Waters is a demigod and he takes the responsibility for it, and rightly so.

The album cover, and the whole story of its creation. I live in London and there isn’t a shopping centre or fashion district big enough to overshadow it. Zara can’t beat Pink Floyd. Battersea Power Station’s image has just moved the pigs inside.

That’s it? Yes, that’s enough, because I’m getting annoyed. The rest you’ll find said and resaid in normal reviews, in the last 40 years or so.

Just one last thing — a little enlightening phrase that manifested to me ten minutes ago:

When The Dark Side of the Moon ends you don’t know what to listen to next, but when Animals ends you only want to listen to it again.

Until next time, you people. I’m off to listen to it again.

Let me explain to you why Animals is the best Pink Floyd album was originally published in Ivan Perilli on Music on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Inizio e mi rendo conto di questo pesante dubbio: Andorra è uno Stato (sovrano), che articolo ci va? Andorra, tra l’altro, sarà maschile o femminile? Ve lo dico subito, che mi sono documentato: ognuno dice come meglio crede. L’Andorra, Andorra. Ma se vogliamo farci furbi, qua si tratta del Principato di Andorra. Andorra come luogo e il Principato come Stato, quindi? Rimaniamo sospesi con questa possibilità. Ma non mi sono arreso… e ho trovato la versione italiana della Costituzione, e si parla sì di Principato di Andorra ma anche solo di Andorra. Quindi niente articolo e gli abitanti si chiamano Andorrani, evvai. Inoltre, ma sono andato in Andorra (come in Spagna, in Francia) o sono andato ad Andorra (come ad Amalfi, o ad Atene)?

(Venivo da Barcellona, andavo a Tolosa, mi sono fermato due notti nella capitale, Andorra La Vella, che Andorra ha poi svariati paesucoli.)

Ma soprattutto Andorra ha il più alto numero di farmacie pro capite del Pianeta Terra! Il motivo? L’amore per il benessere degli Andorrani, o dei loro turisti? Stupidamente, non sono entrato per controllare il prezzo dell’Ibuprofene (che in Inghilterra, dove vivo, costa una sciocchezza ma credo che in Italia si preferisca tenersi il mal di testa). Sarebbe stato uno strabiliante metro di paragone.

Era un paradiso fiscale, ma non lo è più, dal 2009, da quando ha abbassato un poco la cresta in tal senso togliendo il segreto bancario e facendo felici sia l’Unione Europea che l’OCSE e un poco meno felici gli straricchi che non sanno cosa sia la felicità.

La capitale, con appena ventimila abitanti e una valanga di turisti, è in una valle tra i monti, a mille metri di altezza. Dove guardi, vedi montagne, che meraviglia. Dove guardi, vedi farmacie. Dove guardi, vedi McDonald’s. Ne ho contati cinque (su ventimila abitanti), ho controllato… ce ne sono effettivamente cinque. Uno ogni quattromila abitanti. OK, sono lì per i turisti, inutile scandalizzarsi. (In Inghilterra c’è un McDonald’s ogni 45,000 abitanti).

Ma per fortuna Andorra e la sua capitale amano i Pirenei… infatti costruiscono dei bei palazzoni per essere sicuri di deturpare il paesaggio, che bisogna battere cassa. Infatti Andorra è un fenomenale centro commerciale a cielo aperto, e che cielo! Scenari bellissimi tutt’attorno, montagne verdi, nuvole che battono cinque con le sommità. Quindi giù di due o tre viali pieni di tutte le più famose marche di abbigliamento e accessori firmati. Sembrava di essere a Oxford Street. Non c’era nulla da fare, solo vetrine da guardare. Quindi, nelle mie quarantadue ore abbondanti di permanenza, ho pensato a guardare sempre oltre, alle montagne, e a farmici due passi, col portafogli beffardamente sigillato.

Quando cammini per quei viottoli tanto graziosi, ogni andorrano che incontra ti saluta con un sincero Bon Dia (è il loro buongiorno catalano) e sorridono, al contrario dell’andorrano medio, giù a valle. Allora mi chiedo: saranno mica anche loro inzaccherati nel luogo comune dell’autoctono che non sopporta i turisti? Ma tutti siamo prima o poi turisti, ho sempre pensato, io cittadino del mondo. Pure con la commercializzazione del punk, i Sex Pistols cantavano che “tourists are money” e qui in Andorra mi sembra di capire che i soldi non manchino, la moneta entra che è una bellezza, con il turismo come prima fonte di introiti del Principato.

Passeggiando ancora su e giù per la più alta capitale d’Europa, ho anche deciso di abbandonare la mia utile lingua inglese e lasciarmi andare al mutismo quasi totale, tanto comunque nessuno aveva ‘sta gran voglia di fare due chiacchiere con me. La lingua inglese non pare essere parlata dagli Andorrani, nemmeno dai due receptionist dell’alberghetto in cui ho alloggiato. OK, era un alberghetto. Ma ho dovuto mimare il gesto del dentifricio perché toothpaste non era nel prontuario dell’alberghetto moderno andorrano, edizione 2025. L’unica botta d’inglese l’ho ricevuta all’ufficio informazioni per il turismo dove una gentile e loquace (finalmente) guida turistica mi ha consigliato dove andare a scarpinare un po’, ai quattro angoli della cittadina: l’unica vera bella esperienza andorrana, se non si hanno gli sci sul tetto dell’auto (e ci si veste solo per coprirsi). Passeggiando passeggiando sono uscito da La Vella e sono entrato in Escaldes, la seconda città più grande dello staterello. Aria pura, il Valira (il fiume che attraversa Andorra) ordinatamente tumultuoso, e sempre queste quattro amichevoli montagne a mantenere le nuvole buone. In tal senso, avrei potuto camminare ancora per ore, e sarebbe stato un piacere.

(Ho notato che effettivamente per strada, dove la percentuale di turisti era davvero alta, sentivo solo parlare o spagnolo o catalano. Di certo non ho sentito né inglese né italiano, le uniche che potevo riconoscere al volo. Forse del francese.)

Ma cosa fa un giovane andorrano ad Andorra La Vella, la sera? O in ogni caso quando non è a scuola o a fare i compiti? Farà tanto sport, penso. Qui hanno un graziosissimo stadio del rugby (non siamo lontani da Tolosa, dopotutto) e poi vai di sci e suppongo snowboard. Ma poi? Alcuni ne ho visti passeggiare senza una apparente meta, e mi sembravano tutti fondamentalmente annoiati. Pensavo, e forse mi sbaglio, che per uscire dal paesello di montagna loro devono mostrare il passaporto, guidare giù fuori dai Pirenei. Non il massimo, per un sabato sera. Certo, ci sono davvero un bel po’ di bar, pub e ristorantini. Ma ho notato come molti di questi, soprattutto i bar, o siano super infiocchettati per i turisti oppure appaiano piuttosto malmessi, frequentati per scelta solo dagli autoctoni. Ovviamente l’apparenza conta poco quando si tratta di un posto dove bere una birra: la birra deve essere buona e la compagnia giusta, il resto sono fronzoli. Eppure non ho trovato una sana via di mezzo, altrimenti ci sarei entrato volentieri. (Ma ripeto, il mio mutismo spagnolo/catalano mi ha portato — contrariamente al mio modo solito di viaggiare — a starmene zitto zittoper due giorni.)

Andorra non ha un esercito e si legge spesso che a loro ci penserebbero, in improbabili scenari infausti, sia la Spagna che la Francia. Un po’ però penso che gli Andorrani se la saprebbero cavare da soli, visto l’immane numero di vetrine con massiccia esposizione di armi sia da fuoco che da taglio. Assolutamente, nessuna cultura della violenza, sono in vendita solo per una tassazione e regolamentazione probabilmente più leggera, tutto a vantaggio dei turisti (ma che bei turisti…). Coltelli, spade e lame di tutti i tipi, a centinaia, in decine di negozi. Pistole, pistolette, fucili, fuciloni fenomenali, e via dicendo in altrettante vetrine. Munizioni per tutte le tasche. E poi i mitra. Quando ho visto i mitra, le mitragliatrici, non ci potevo credere. C’era anche l’AK-47: il fucile d’assalto più famoso al mondo e probabilmente il modello di arma da fuoco più menzionato, dalla Seconda Guerra Mondiale in poi. Vederne uno, per la prima volta coi miei occhi, mi ha messo una tristezza profonda, un velo davvero nero su quest’ambigua breve permanenza lì tra i Pirenei. La violenza, le armi, esistono e fanno fuoco ovunque, ma io un AK-47 non l’avevo mai visto, non ci tenevo, ma l’ho beccato per la prima volta ad Andorra La Vella. Che gran bella capitale tra i monti, l’aria fresca, e il profumo di munizioni appena esplose, con un poco di fantasia.

Il Ministero del Turismo di Andorra non sarà felicissimo di questo mio articolo ma le libertà di parola, di opinione e tutto il resto valgono molto, con o senza imposta sul valore aggiunto.

I moved to London many years ago. With all its pros and cons, I feel at home here. Becoming a proper human being in London (a Londoner, indeed) triggered in me those typical behaviours like drinking tea, standing on the right side of the escalator and avoiding changing at Green Park station. Sporadically (and when my salary finally started growing), I began to take a cab ride home, usually late at night and when too many drinks occurred.

I’m sure it doesn’t come as any surprise if I say that most of the time I fall asleep during those journeys home. Nothing strange, especially when the taxi is a black cab, one of the most iconic London sights, a bit more pricey but definitely more fascinating than any minicab offer. The random quick talk to these friendly mystery men at the steering wheel… the extra-large back seats, like a portable living room, stuck in time…

On a side note, and definitely more than once, I had the feeling the driver was not actually going for the fastest or shortest route. I am not talking about huge diversions but just maybe a couple of turns more, unnecessary somehow, as they seemed to steer back on the main route right after a few blocks. Never tried asking, as I thought that would have sounded like I was accusing them of squeezing a few pounds more out of my pocket. In all honesty, I never had the impression the final fare was inflated, so when this happened, I kept my mouth shut.

Still, a few months ago, I was somehow lucky enough to meet, during a regular Friday drink at the local pub, an old guy who was supposed to be a former black cab driver. A nice and slim man, with salt and pepper hair and a properly trimmed beard. I could easily picture him driving his cab. A couple of pints and after the obvious questions about having to learn by heart every inch of the capital, I went for the cheeky one: do you drivers take diversions sometimes, even when it isn’t a matter of traffic?

The guy smiled and took a good sip, leaning on the bar.

“Sure”, he said.

“Sure?” I said back.

“You should thank me I’m drinking.”

“Pardon?”

“Because I’m telling you this now. Yes, we do. Diversions. Some of us.”

“So why?” I just had to ask, frowning.

One more long sip and his local ale was done.

“Some of us drivers believe we have to avoid black doors, or black portals, or tombs, or whatever.”

I smiled, I like stories that can’t be real. Much better than after-work chats with my colleagues.

“So tell me more, then”, I said with the most encouraging voice I could.

“You buy me a pint and I’ll tell you the scariest thing a cab driver can tell ya, son”

“What’s that?”

“Doombar.”

I asked for two pints of Doombar and the old chap just started, as if he was opening a book out of his most secret pocket.

“They say it was during the mid-seventies recession, when the economy was not the best in England. I may say 1975 or so. Everyone got a lot of work, in case you had a job, and if you didn’t want to lose it. Some people say cab drivers were one of those categories trying to work the most, considering there was no check on rules on how long you could have stayed late working or things like that. So the legend goes that one of us really pushed the limit… with body and mind, I may say. His name was Kurt Smith and he was in his forties at that time. He was really just driving, working from 8 a.m. to late at night. Eating in the cab, lunch, dinner, never resting, never a nap. He managed almost to forget he had a family, a wife, his two kids. One night he forgot to come back home and kept on working and driving. The family couldn’t find him, no mobile phones at that time. He was just thinking of driving his bloody cab. Very business-oriented, you may say now.”

He laughed aloud, I over-smiled at his joke.

“He went on that crazy way for a long time and then started sleeping in the cab at night. Then, a couple of weeks after, he stopped sleeping, and just drinking a shit load of black coffee. I mean, this is what people used to say. Anyway, this Kurt stopped sleeping and, with that, he finally forgot completely about going back home, having a shower and saying hi to his wife. He just went quietly mad, while driving customers around London. Unfortunately, once he didn’t realise he forgot to put petrol in the cab. He realised when it was about 3 a.m. and with a customer in the back seat. The cab slowed down and stopped in the middle of the road, somewhere in west London, not too far from Notting Hill, no one really knows where. The best part of this is that when the cab stopped moving, Kurt fell asleep, collapsed with his face on the steering wheel, and it seemed like he broke his nose.”

“And the customer?”

“We say he ran away, no doubt scared to death.”

“And then?”

“Kurt stayed there for some time, asleep. It was late at night and no one was around. He woke up by 5 or 6. He probably understood what happened and noticed his nose was bleeding. This is probably when he actually lost his mind. He left the cab there, he didn’t care anymore, there in the middle of the street. He walked home. His wife was frightened yet relieved to see him. His ten and eight years old kids were happy too. It was 7 a.m. when he went to the bedroom, took the gun from the closet and killed his wife, his sons and himself. He probably went completely crazy. I mean, no explanation. Lack of sleep, too much coffee, too much in general, alienation. Or the devil, who knows.”

I was quite shocked, I shivered. And the guy was a good storyteller.

“So yes, why I’ve been telling you this story?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, you should believe in ghosts now. But, either way, this is what we cab drivers say, in London and England in general. Some people say it was the Devil removing the petrol from the car as they found a hole in the tank, when the police noticed a pond under the cab. Why would the Devil have done that? Probably to drive Kurt crazy. I don’t know the Devil personally, but I guess he’s the kind of guy who would enjoy these pranks. So yes, they say that happened ‘cos the Devil cooked it up. Then the police moved the cab away and everything went on the news. What people don’t really know is that the spot where Kurt left his damned car became a sort of haunted place, somehow magic, but not good magic.”

I remember I opened my eyes wide with astonishment.

“We say a tunnel appeared there. We call it black door or black portal and if and when a black cab gets in, well, the cab vanishes with the driver and all the passengers. Then the cab comes back, and the driver too, but the passengers are gone forever. The driver of course from that moment on is a kind of dark soul, a ghost, but he still looks real and human, nothing rotten or zombie-like and they will drive the next customer straight to meet the Devil in a black door. Not sure why, they say those drivers wear no shoes, but of course you can’t check that before getting in a cab.”

“Wait a minute, hold on. So are you telling me cab drivers take diversions as they are avoiding the black door?”

“Exactly”.

“Don’t they know where it is? You said it was in Notting hill…”

“Yes, but imagine. Can you draw it on a map? No. And word of mouth did the rest. Some people say those black doors move, that is not just one now, or anyway you can’t really know, and West London is large. So every cab driver has their own idea. Someone says the engine gets kind of flooded when in proximity, or it turns off suddenly. So they just divert a bit more and try to remember it.”

“Ever happened to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah… but never got the engine sounding strange? Never thought of that?”

“Never.”

“In West London.”

“Mate, never.”

“I guess you drivers don’t talk about it if it happened to be a personal experience.”

“Your opinion. To me… it just never happened. I don’t actually believe it is true, but hey, that’s the story. Hope you enjoy it.”

He bought me a pint, and some people joined us in random conversations at the bar.

Later, I obviously took a cab home. I tried to take a look at the feet of the driver but it was not possible. Also, I was quite disappointed when the man just drove me straight home, no diversions attempted.

We all know, we notice that so often in the bookshops: the self-development area, with a good amount of shelves filled with books that will change our lives forever: big titles and big promises. Are we that wrong? Sometimes I wonder. We aren’t wrong, but often we do it wrongly. Why? Those books will tell you. All of them? No, maybe just two or three. Probably the shortest ones. But as pages need to be filled up, because the price has to be justified (although “Of Mice and Men” and “The Old Man and the Sea” are among the tiniest books ever). Yet you should feel something tangible and heavy in your hand, but rest assured that, although the reading experience will be pleasant, the outcome, the actual lesson will probably be 5% of the whole amount of information you will receive. How is that possible? What is that 95%? Examples, many examples, millions of examples, fun facts and lists of superfluous details. They will help you understand, sure, yet you won’t need five or six examples to digest usually quite straightforward concepts as it’s not quantum physics. Consequently, you may end up reading those books at a very fast rate, literally skipping paragraphs. How many did I read in order to say this? Quite a few, probably a dozen by now. Any suggestions? Anything I would avoid? Several suggestions, nothing that I would avoid… why? Because the worst that can happen in this reading experience, is that you may read something you know already (from another book, or just life taught you?) or something you just don’t need to know or learn. So the bad experience with those books is a very subjective feedback. While the good one can surely be more objective, for everyone. Having said this, here I start…

Eat That Frog by Brian Tracy
5/5 for beginners, 4/5 for anyone else
Essential, straight to the point, I wonder if this is the most famous and fundamental analysis of what to do, not just with your time but with your intentions. It is short, it boosts you almost on every page with a really limited amount of weak passages (but even the Divine Comedy has probably some weak moments). Sometimes I think that, in the end, everything — any study on time management and related areas — should start and has to end back here, making a circle of knowledge confirming itself. Wait, what did I say?

The 7 Habits Of Highly Effective People by Stephen Covey
3.5/5, but it is a good read.
Although heavy, very heavy, the so-called “7 habits” are great quality points, and they get properly described and explained even when the book sometimes is clearly self-referenced. Its first edition is from 1989, which is quite a remarkable effort. Yet I wonder if it needs a second read to actually learn and apply what to do or if it can be archived back on the shelf and stay there, gathering dust. The whole book takes you very seriously, and it is enjoyable if you enjoy some deep thinking with some very good moment of self analysis, and almost not quick ephemeral wins at all. Sometimes it wants to get almost a scientific approach, spinning around perceptions, paradigms and so on and you may feel something can be a bit off. The end is quite peculiar and definitely unexpected, towards spirituality, religion and even God’s trust. No judgement here, anyway I was taken off guard by that. And I really wonder why.

The One Thing by Gary Keller
3/5 as one thing, indeed.
Definitely verbose and stretched like a pizza dough for a very large oven, but the key concept is solid, strong and clear and can greatly affect if understood at the right time of your life. Somehow an entry-level book, a pleasant read after all. In some part, and if you are in a weak and doubtful moment of you evening, this book can actually hit you hard with very good intentions. It doesn’t make you feel miserable, it actually wakes you up. But if you were already awake, then you may wonder why all those pages, and you are definitely right to ask that. Anyway I have seen worse and this can effectively trigger some new power in your basic productivity. A reasonable start, a good initial choice for your productivity journey.

10% happier by Dan Harris
4/5 or 3/5, it depends on who you are.
Very nicely written, you can certainly tell it’s a real journalist’s work, someone good at writing in the first place. Probably more pleasant than others for this reason, as facts are a lot, but it gets your attention as any good book should, plus facts here are not randomly picked but all revolve around the author’s life experience throughout several years. A calibrated biography, to some extent. It is not a manual, definitely, as it involves considering mindfulness and fighting back modern times’ struggles with the right quantity of meditation (real one), so not a productivity or time management oriented, if not almost against it, which is also another point of observation I always found fascinating. Not all books must be on how to shift up. This definitely is not. Will it change your life? No. Will you remember reading it?

To be continued…

on those books about you was originally published in Ivan Perilli on Time Management on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Not surprisingly, my previous article on procrastination triggered a bit more “involvement” than usual. As I have been thinking more and more over the years, and I am 100% sure now, time (and its management) affects literally every single human being on the planet. Procrastination, being one of the most common “diseases” of it, is obviously quite common. If time were health, procrastination would be a typical rhinovirus. What’s a rhinovirus? It’s when you get a cold.

A dear friend told me he has a hidden (imaginary?) button on his right leg: he presses it twice and that feeling of upcoming procrastination vanishes immediately, making him start whatever he has to do. Surely a diligent character. Yet this is a simple, great physical trigger to get out of the trap as soon as possible, before our lovely amygdala takes over (the amygdala is where the procrastination hormones throw house parties…). Also, that button can be a very good device for the 5-second rule by Mel Robbins. I often talk about the 5-second rule as it is so simple and so powerful… You just can’t avoid it.

Now, getting more into the procrastination galore… It has been observed how procrastination can have its reasons and roots, also somehow generated by specific cultural aspects. The end result or, better, the end explanation is always that weird fear that triggers the fight/flight debate (amygdala wins, fear takes over), but what do we actually fear when we postpone, for example, starting to work on an essay for a university exam? If you are a student with a Western culture, you will fear the possibility of not meeting your previous high marks. If you are a student from an Eastern culture, you will fear the possibility of not being as good as your peers. For both cases, what’s the best/wrong solution? Do nothing, run away, procrastinate and the fear’s gone. Surely both scenarios have some overlap and may not be so generalised as I have simply put them, yet our brain — what a surprise — can be affected by cultural aspects, even when it comes to procrastination. Of course, the actual paralysis that can get a student before starting the writing of an essay is a perfect example, the fear of the first few words (something affecting anyone who has a pen) is an ideal reason to postpone it to the next day. Our prefrontal cortex knows tomorrow will be exactly the same anyway. Yet the unaware student makes the mistake, and the amygdala can sip its cocktail.

On another aspect, it has already happened a few times that when I mentioned I am exploring more and more the mechanism of procrastination, my interlocutor said “yeah, ADHD”. Well, that is quite a misconception. ADHD (the nowadays famous neurological condition making it difficult for people to manage attention, impulsivity and hyperactivity) can easily have a clear burst in the form of procrastination but thinking they are just automatically interconnected is a no-no. Surely people with ADHD may fall into that trap more easily, but is that a symptom leading to a diagnosis? No, not officially at least. I am saying this to both ease the struggle people with ADHD may feel when it comes to procrastination consequences and to those people worried they may have a level of ADHD condition because they just struggle with their counterproductive procrastination urge. This will surely require a specific magnifying glass… a separate article. Yet ADHD and procrastination should not automatically explain or justify each other.

Now, how many times have you heard “picture the process, not the outcome”? Life coaches love to say that. I love it, too, without being a life coach. If there is a way to defeat procrastination, it is by thinking of small steps. But how can you think of small steps? It’s all about the process, where by process we don’t have to necessarily picture a complex spaghetti incident of if-then-elses, blocks or second options. A process, especially at the beginning, has to be quite linear. It may get a bit expanded later on, but thinking of step number 20 when the outcome will happen at step number 25 is pretty already thinking ahead towards the outcome, same mistake under a different disguise. First three or four steps, small and clear, can really make you defeat the procrastination monster. We already said how the “once you start” the chances of procrastination happening along the way are way lower than they were at the beginning.

Procrastination can be a disaster in some cases, affecting huge chunks of life, so it must be taken seriously. Yet a bit of a smile and self-deprecating humour can lighten the weight… Did you know there is an organisation called Procrastinators Club of America, that is almost 70 years old and they have been so lazy that they haven’t ever set up a website for it?

(have you missed the first article on procrastination? Here we go!)

of procrastination and life (part 2) was originally published in Ivan Perilli on Time Management on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Is procrastination the quintessential enemy of time management? The real tough one, the equivalent of the Joker for the Batman? Interruptions are external factors, so are delays. Bad planning? It’s a mistake, but not a deliberate one, as you don’t intentionally sabotage yourself. But when it comes to procrastination, something happens, something powerful yet sneaky, silently eating your time and throwing it away. It’s like junk food, it’s junk time, let’s say.

Procrastination, officially, is “the act of delaying something that must be done, often because it is unpleasant or boring” and this is the Cambridge dictionary speaking now.

Nowadays, such an event happens more than ever, thanks to our favourite blame: our phone and its essence: social media.

Adding some interesting stats to it, according to Google’s Books Ngram Viewer, the words procrastination and procrastinate had an interesting peak in the last twenty years. The Internet happened in the last twenty years… then why did it go down again, as the graph shows? Well, I suppose we got used to it and stopped talking about it.

Yet procrastination is here, alive and kicking, maybe it was there five minutes ago and it may be back just before lunch.

Clearing up the problem, we should not analyse now whether what we are postponing or skipping is important or not: if it needs to be done and we are not doing it then we are effectively procrastinating it. Before measuring it (is it a big task or just a small action to get rid of?) we have to stay on track with time management here and “when” is the crucial adverb here. Is there a when there, defining the severity of our laziness? In essence, is there an upcoming deadline or not?

This is crucial and splits the case into two and the logic holding this may surprise you: procrastinating when there is a deadline is bad, but procrastinating when there is no deadline is worse, way worse.

First case: the deadline is getting closer and closer, and you are not reacting to that. Your task must be done by that deadline, as it is an external one, it’s about work, your manager is waiting for it and so are your colleagues. Or a friend is waiting for your part on your shared project, and you are going to make their time miserable if you fail the deadline. What about paying a fine, you want to miss the deadline and pay more? Not to mention the paper you have to submit for a university exam.

But the truth is that you will make it, very likely you will not miss the deadline. You will rush it, you will sweat, you will pant, you will get stressed but you will make it. How good? Probably not the best. Rushing last minute a paper for university or a document for work will never make it better, believing that rush will function as a trick to help your concentration is just a lie we may tell to ourselves. At a minimum, you won’t have time to think twice, to review, to find better sources, evidence, etc.

Nice experience? Good results? Not at all.

But what happens when we procrastinate something that has no deadline? I may assume you just realise it now: we may never do it. That action/task/project/wish will never happen. It doesn’t matter what it is, but surely it will be postponed forever. Now, if that is something not important at all, we can just accept it as it is and it will be forgotten one day, may take months or years but it will become just a little dot in our memory of random thoughts, if ever. But what if that is (was?) something important? Something we care about? A dream of ours, making it big? Well, that will turn the whole acceptance into frustration, and all due to ourselves, no way we can blame anyone else. In the long run, when time will be objectively over, we will just think we would have failed, it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. Sure, and we will say that without even having tried: the worst kind of acceptance. Because of our apparent laziness, we fail without even taking part in the race.

Let’s be clear here, this is always fundamental to say: nothing wrong with failing, as long as we actually tried our best. Or tried decently, at least. The mortal sin is not trying.

But why do we procrastinate? Our brain, our comfort zone and our fears. Those are the actors.

Our brain… blame it. It sees that pressing task as a threat — after all we don’t want to do it, right? So as a fear response, our amygdala kicks in with some hormone cannonballs, making us stress and panic, and the amygdala wins the ballot of “who is in charge now?”, very likely defeating your prefrontal cortex, where the rational thinking takes place. And now you have to decide, and of course you prefer to skip that self-inflicted fear momentum giving way to any other activity that won’t harm you. Like scrolling up and down on your phone. If you procrastinate often, you have quite a pretty strong amygdala. Yet your prefrontal cortex is not stupid and it is fully aware that you skip the fear just by avoiding the task. You feel bad you did, but your amygdala (with the help of some dopamine) makes you feel… less bad. And next time the deadline will be closer, and fear higher, and — unless the deadline is “virtually tomorrow” — the amygdala knows it will win again.

On the other side, distractions are easy, completely pointless and can’t do any (immediate) harm. That is why we hide our lives in those reels, stories, likes, snacks.

Surely there are other distractions but effectively — yet quite dramatically — there is nowadays no better example than a phone addiction, even for brief periods of time.

What can we do then? For some people this trap can be damn huge. Well, we have to hack it, to sabotage it. A little push can represent a great jump sometimes and the most beneficial act here would be the first step, because that will interrupt our procrastinating mood or cycle.

I have two simple pieces of advice: the first concerns dimensions, the second concerns initiative.

No task is too big if you can slice it down into parts or steps, and really anything can be divided and divided. Looking at the final result we want to obtain is important just at the beginning, for planning but then — exactly, with planning — we can start from the first small part. It is a different topic here, but this is the tip: identify what to do next (or first) and just focus on that.

But when should I start? Now, of course. You don’t feel like? The lazy procrastinating effect is still there? Count to five and start. It’s not a joke, it’s the 5-second rule, defined by Mel Robbins, and used by so many people (including myself) daily. Count to five, your brain immediately focuses and prepares for action, when it says five… go. Leave the couch, start moving towards your task. Act and don’t think twice. It literally works like turning the engine key for your car: once you switch it on, you can drive it nicely, but without that spark (that takes virtually 5 seconds) the car won’t move.

Does it sound too easy to actually do it? It is easy, and the more you use the 5-second rule (which is by the way something much more powerful than just this) the more you will get used to it, and it will always work, promise. You can’t fail to start, if you start… you succeeded already.

The conclusion? Think about it, identify your moment of procrastination and put a spotlight on it, make it feel embarrassed and react to that, as you have some simple yet powerful tricks now.

(This topic is obviously much larger but hey, this is a fairly good start)

of procrastination and life was originally published in Ivan Perilli on Time Management on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Let’s catch up, what does that mean? We haven’t met for ages and now I should ask my AI assistant to make a summary, preferably a bullet point list, of the highlights you missed — things I’m sure you don’t actually care about — since last time we met, which was, roughly, 18 months ago?

We should catch up.

Yeah, I changed my job, twice. Oh, you too? Oh, you got promoted, congratulations. Yeah, I can tell you are head of sales now. Sales people, they so good at acting, they can sound so interested in their interlocutor’s life, I knew you were doing well down that path. Yeah, the genocide in Palestine is a war crime, yet your Israeli client is very kind.

(We should catch up, yeah!)

So nice, you’re moving again but this time you are not taking your flatmate with you, no I can’t remember her name. Ah, his name? Yeah, I can’t remember. My parents are fine, I go often to visit them, you ask me this every time, every two years. Last time we talked was before or after the pandemic?

I think you can read online my latest updates.
I should publish them for everyone.
Probably what you see on Instagram is insufficient.
Maybe you should accept my friendship.

But anyway, really, I am so happy you got promoted. Your boss is happy, too. He is a happy chap. And the commute is fine!

In all honesty, the problem is real: when I meet someone for a ketchup, I can’t decide what to say first, or what to say in general. I doubt you want to know anything at all, and a form of anxiety almost comes up, somehow. (I don’t have time to say everything, but do I have to, now with them?)

… yes, I am still playing music, I know you don’t know any of my songs, no, that was another band, I left that band ten years ago. No, I didn’t know your brother makes music now with AI, I didn’t know you had a brother, actually. He lives in US? Where? Califoooeeeernia? Oh, that is so cool. Yeah, London’s weather is bad, but we have public healthcare, sorry — you are absolutely right — NHS IS SHIT and, as you are head of sales now, you prefer private. Thanks for confirming what I thought of you.

You asking me if I got the ticket to watch Oasis but you don’t know I don’t like Oasis. I wish I knew the name of your dog, the one you post photos of all the time, and I think he died recently. I wouldn’t mind seeing your reaction to my fake surprise, maybe I could burst into tears, if I were only a good actor, like you.

But I don’t work in sales, a smiling salespuppet.

(is it actually true? Self description from a job description? Are we what we are paid for? Are YOU what you are paid for, when not sales?)

Anyway, any plans for the weekend? No, actually, I got a better one: any holiday plans? Vietnam? Cuba? Visiting that friend in Paris, he has two kids now, and you really want to see them?

Quality of the people you spend time with, see them again, over and over.

Quantity makes you feel sick. A fruit salad of drinks and empty questions, that is horrific. I don’t feel like giving a real answer, so I just say anything.

Have you noticed how much a pint of lager costs nowadays? No, you can’t say that. You must keep a straight face towards salary struggles, an unaffected look-and-feel. It’s a catch-up, not a real thing.

No, no, no cocktail questions, no. OK you have one for me: If you could travel anywhere right now, where would you go?

I would go home immediately.

Tiny bonus story: I was in Rotterdam last week when I received a call from a recruiter. I told him I was not in London but having a quick break. So he asked me where I was and I said I was in the Netherlands. So he said I was surely enjoying the nice weather there, instead of the sad weather we have in London. He obviously had no idea where I was, and probably he would have said the same even if I were in Siberia.

Sono spesso in biblioteca, durante la mia pausa pranzo. Non mi cibo di carta, mangio prima, alla scrivania (così guadagno tempo e faccio pure bella figura coi superiori, per quel che mi possa interessare e per quel che possa soprattutto interessare a loro). La biblioteca qui a Wimbledon non richiede alcuna registrazione per l’accesso alle sue sale, inclusa ovviamente la sala lettura, quindi quale scusa trovare?

La sala lettura per me diventa una sala scrittura.

È silenziosa e parecchio grande. Soffitto alto, circondata da librerie a muro. Tavoli grandi sparsi qua e là, gente di tutte le età e fattezze, sparse pure loro. Gomiti, zigomi, mignoli di tutti i tipi, sempre appaiati, uniti da busti unici e singolari nell’aspetto, accompagnati da teste e facce.

Scarpe, a volte capitano pantofole.

Ho un’ora di tempo e ho intenzione di scrivere un articolo per il blog. Ho quel che si dice una mezza idea (piuttosto buona) e voglio spremermi come un limone, vediamo dove mi porta.

Vicino alla finestra, un grosso finestrone che meriterebbe una bella lavata, noto un signore molto anziano. Minimo ottanta, massimo tendente all’infinito. Potrei parlare di lui ora, ma sarebbe fin troppo facile. Potrebbe morire lì seduta stante, potrebbero pure cascargli fuori i bulbi oculari, potrebbe iniziare a uscirgli sabbia dalla bocca e dalle orecchie. Sabbia fine fine, come un processo di svuotamento post imbalsamazione.

La sabbia, negli ambienti giusti, può far davvero paura. In riva al mare, poco. Al massimo fa male, tendente all’infinito, ma solo se ne hai le mutande piene.

Ma non sarà questo anziano signore a catturarmi in questo racconto, no. Me lo segno però, è una figura che può funzionare, questo vecchio della sabbia.

Al centro dello stanzone, a un tavolo tutto vuoto, siede una ragazza sulla ventina. Forse trentina, mi sa. Ma troppo magra per dirlo, e alterata nell’espressione, sembra una radiografia, se non proprio l’anima di sé stessa (per fare il miserabile poetico).

Non sono molto lontano da lei, ma mi sembra di esserlo, ecco, ma che strana sensazione… Cosa diavolo è per trasmetterti questo? Un fantasma? Uno spettro? Mi sembra come se ci siano trecento anni di distanza tra me e lei che invece, a occhio e croce, non più dieci metri. È minuta, oltre che magrissima. Noto che non ha con sé né un computer né uno smartphone, ma solo un quaderno e una penna. Mi prende quasi una forma di sonnolenza guardarla. Sta scrivendo, è mancina e dalla postura pare come incazzata. Mi viene da pensare stia scrivendo una lettera piena di parolacce, tipicamente all’ex fidanzato.

(Mi stiracchio un po’, inizio a dimenticarmi perché sono in biblioteca, anche se tra poco dovrò tornare in ufficio.)

Sbadiglio che mi fanno male le tempie per lo sforzo.

C’è un tipo grassottello a tre tavoli di distanza da me. Ha un magliettone rosso che rischia di dilaniare a ogni respiro. Effettivamente non è grassottello, è proprio una balena pazzesca. Però ha una faccia simpatica… ma crucciata, pure lui? Sta fissando il vuoto, di grasso mi sa che ha pure gli occhi. Mi sembra come gli stia uscendo un filo di fumo dalla testa, non dalle orecchie, ma proprio dal cucuzzolo del capo. Sì, è chiaramente fumo, un filino sottile e grigio che va su.

Ma che? Sta andando a fuoco?

Che faccio? Lo avviso?

Al panzone in rosso, dalla stessa seminascosta sorgente di fumo vedo uscirgli come delle leggerissime goccioline nere, microscopiche ma ben visibili, che svolazzano via verso l’alto. Come se fossero elettrizzate, irradiano una leggera luce che permette di seguirle chiaramente nell’aria. Salgono più alte, almeno un metro sopra la testa del ciccione e, saranno ormai migliaia, iniziano a distribuirsi per formare una sorta di striscione, come un banner pubblicitario, lungo un paio di metri, su di lui.

(Leggo…)

“STRONZO CHI LEGGE”

Dovrei scappare a gambe levate ma mi viene da ridere, ma sono anche allibito. Un ciccione atomico ha prodotto tipo ciminiera una valanga di goccioline d’inchiostro che gli hanno formato la scritta “stronzo chi legge” sulla testa, proprio come la nuvoletta di un fumetto, solo molto più aggressiva, e per giunta proprio in una biblioteca.

Capisco al volo, deve essere una candid camera. È uno scherzo, le telecamere saranno nascoste dietro le tende. Sorrido ostentatamente agli altri presenti per far capire che ho capito lo scherzo, ma loro sono tutti chini su libri e computer, tutti paiono immersi nei loro pensieri.

La frase è ancora lì che aleggia. Noto pure che è scritta in italiano, ma io sono in Inghilterra. Forse l’uomo balena è italiano?

“Tecnologia Babel Fish installata negli ambienti” — recita una scritta sul muro, in verde cosmico e anche in questo caso in italiano.

Penso a lui, a Douglas Adams, e accetto di buon grado l’informazione. Non mi dispiacerebbe apparisse lui, ora, o Prefect.

Come però posso accettare che quel tizio si sia trasformato in un pannello pubblicitario? Do per scontato che quello sia il suo pensiero, polemico il giusto e nei confronti di tutti.

Una forte volata di vento mi fa girare la testa verso sinistra, alla ragazza magrissima. Porte e finestre, tutte chiuse. Da dove venisse il vento, ora non saprei dirlo.

Anche lei ha girato la testa, suppongo per la stessa folata, dandomi così la nuca, da lontano, per un attimo.

La ragazza minuta mi sembra quasi stia diventando trasparente, tanto la avverto lontana, e sottile e tutta pelle e ossa, leggera come la polvere sulle dita.

Mi guarda.

Mi guarda, e l’aria non si muove.

Mi sta guardando dritto negli occhi, senza accennare alcuna espressione. Dritta con l’attenzione, mi penetra con lo sguardo, per quanto vacuo. Sento un rumore di un treno, è il fischio, anzi. Mi volto di scatto, me l’ero sentito arrivare da lontano, alle spalle. Girandomi vedo che la nuvoletta “scortese” del ciccione è diventata una chiazza scura, quasi come una pozza di petrolio. Sempre sospesa in aria sulla sua testa, comunque. Mi rimetto ordinato sulla sedia e inizio a credere sia solo un sogno, senz’ombra di dubbio. Colpa delle cozze, dei peperoni, della cheesecake al plutonio, non lo so, colpa di qualcosa, ma la sensazione di disagio inizia a diventare insopportabile, allora cerco di svegliarmi e non ci riesco, mi sento obbligato a rimanere.

La ragazza è ancora lì. Appena la guardo lei subito rialza gli occhi dal quaderno e mi rifissa nei miei di occhi, con calma e risolutezza. Io reggo lo sguardo e subito risento il treno in lontananza. Non mi giro, anche se lo sento arrivare. Lei non cede, sembra non rappresenti alcun problema per lei rimanere a fissarmi così, quasi da un altro mondo. Il treno ora dovrebbe essere davvero vicino, il fischio è forte, l’aria trema. Non vedo perché dovrei crederle, quindi continuo anche io a sostenere lo sguardo. Quel treno di certo non esiste, anche se lo avverto chiaramente in arrivo alle mie spalle, dietro di me senza alcun dubbio.

Avverto un chiaro brivido di paura, tremo un attimo. Il rumore del treno diventa quasi assordante, mi arriva da dietro. Mi prende. Mi centra in pieno, alle spalle. Rimango seduto mentre tutto il mio corpo mi si spiaccica su una parete della biblioteca, con il treno che vi ci scorre dentro. Vedo tutte le mie interiora volare via e un dolore lancinante mi colpisce, mi squarcia in due. Non grido, non riesco a gridare, sono inchiodato alla sedia mentre il mio corpo si disintegra frantumandosi per lo schianto, vedo le mie ossa e la mia carne sbalzare lontano. Era un treno lungo, e quando finisce sono senza fiato, mi fa male la gola, come se poi fossi riuscito davvero a gridare. La ragazza minuta è sempre lì che mi guarda, non so decifrare se con soddisfazione o cosa. Io mi guardo il corpo e in un certo senso è come se non ci fosse più, è tutto maciullato ora. Deve essere un trucco, devo essere vittima di qualche eccellente gioco di magia, di uno di quelli spettacoli televisivi che avrebbe fatto il David Copperfield dei tempi d’oro. Ripenso che potrebbe trattarsi di un sogno, mi do uno schiaffetto sulla guancia, un secondo, un terzo, anche un più forte dell’altro. Il dolore mi sveglia quasi non so da cosa, batto e ribatto le ciglia, ma sono ancora in biblioteca. Il sangue non c’è più, ho tutto il mio corpo di nuovo intatto. La ragazza non mi guarda più, ora volge lo sguardo fuori la finestra. Davanti a me sul mio tavolo della sala lettura è comparso un trenino giocattolo, il modellino di un solo vagone. D’istinto lo prendo, è di plastica e metallo, e rigirandolo tra le mani non noto che ha un lato leggermente ammaccato che così rende acuminato uno degli angoli. Mi ci graffio leggermente a quello spigolo, ritiro istintivamente la mano e noto che mi esce una minuscola goccia di sangue dall’indice destro. La ragazza scoppia a ridere, tutti la guardano e lei si scusa. Con un fazzoletto mi pulisco il dito, continua a uscirmi una nuova gocciolina di sangue, così decido di aspettare e lasciarla seccare.

Per un attimo penso che la gocciolina possa salire e anche io… no, non diciamo stronzate.

Cerco quindi di concentrarmi sul mio essere lì in biblioteca, per scrivere e assolutamente non per farmi travolgere da quelle diavolerie. La possibilità che una biblioteca possa sempre essere un covo di fantasmi o svitati va sempre tenuta presente ma non sarebbe corretto generalizzare anche perché in tal caso il mondo accademico sarebbe un inferno e non ci sarebbero più laureati, tranne quelli in qualche laurea che ora potrei liberamente offendere ma per questa volta non me la sento, qui ci sono già troppi problemi. Il mio spirito polemico necessita di energie che ora non ho.

Ho ancora venti minuti prima di dover tornare in ufficio, almeno qualche email la posso mandare, qualche buona idea la potrei pure almeno inizializzare. Ma ecco il terzo incomodo, il terzo fantasma del Natale, dopo il panzone dello stronzo chi legge e dopo la ragazza del treno. È uomo, sulla quarantina, una maglietta bianca con dei microscopici gabbiani disegnati sopra. Questo rappresenta la sua normalità.

Si aggiusta la sedia, tirandola un po’ sotto la scrivania.

È seduto al tavolo di fianco al mio, lo vedo con la coda dell’occhio.

Lo vedo che si riaggiusta la sedia, un poco più indietro. La riaggiusta ancora, tirandola a sé.

Ancora, un po’ più alla sua sinistra, giusto un paio di centimetri. Si tocca le sopracciglia, prima la destra poi la sinistra, sposta la sedia, sembra rimetterla apposto dove era prima, anche se non si era spostata per niente, secondo me. Torna alle sopracciglia, questa volta prima la sinistra e poi la destra. Ci sono due penne vicino a lui, le scambia di posto. Controlla i tappi, le scambia nuovamente di posto.

Il ciccione dal suo tavolo si alza, senza nuvola d’inchiostro. Si avvicina a quest’uomo pieno di tic nervosi, si posiziona alle sue spalle, mentre l’uomo è ancora seduto. Ecco che l palla di lardo afferra il collo di questi, con entrambe le mani, in una presa ferma. L’uomo dei tic si agita, cerca di strapparsi via quelle grasse mani dal collo ma quell’ammasso di ciccia pare avere una forza immane in quei due soffici manoni.

Nessuno muove un dito, tanto meno io.

L’uomo dei tic collassa di faccia sul tavolo, la faccia stravolta, credo sia morto.

Il ciccione torna al suo tavolo e veloce riappare la nuvoletta d’inchiostro, roba di qualche secondo e si popola di nuove goccioline.

“NON MI GUARDARE”, leggo scritto sopra la sua testa.

Forse l’uomo dei tic lo stava osservando. Io volgo lo sguardo altrove, in maniera plateale, per far sì che lui noti la mia ubbidienza, che il suo messaggio ha fatto il suo dovere, giungendo a destinazione.

Attendo un breve minuto, facendo finta di essere perso nei miei pensieri. Poi esco, torno al lavoro, al sicuro. Il pomeriggio scorre ovviamente con la testa altrove, ma nulla accade, almeno attorno a me, a un paio di isolati dalla biblioteca.

Quando esco dal lavoro non me la sento di avere a controllare. Troppa paura, e per molti altri giorni a venire.

Sono tornato dopo un paio di settimane, lì in biblioteca. In testa mi risuonava “100 years ago” dei Rolling Stones, ma questo particolare l’avrei capito solo molto dopo — e ancora devo probabilmente capirlo appieno.

Ho preso il mio posto, un posto qualsiasi a uno dei tavoloni lì nell’ampio stanzone della sala lettura. C’era chi studiava, chi scriveva, chi leggeva distrattamente qualche rivista (le fantastiche impolverate riviste delle biblioteche).

La cosa mi ha ricordato quando, sul bus con cui mi stavo recando da New Orleans a Houston, vicino a me venne a sedersi un vecchio magro magro che leggeva una rivista datata 1978 e tra le pagine vi ci avevo sbirciato una foto figura intera di un vecchio tale e quale a lui. Non ho mai capito, e non ebbi il coraggio di chiedere al momento. Rimane uno dei misteri insoluti, per me e con la certezza che quel vecchio fosse lui e rivista del 1978. Un viaggio nel tempo o una burla pazzesca.

A ogni modo, questa volta lì nella biblioteca di Wimbledon, nessuno strano personaggio, nessun semidio sceso in terra, zero diavolerie, nessuna ragazza con la passione dei treni e nessun ciccione con la voglia di insultare o strangolare il prossimo. Nessun effetto speciale, nulla, nulla di quel che temevo.

Quindi ci ho solo scritto un po’, magari storie che leggerete in seguito, mi sono fermato giusto un’ora a pausa pranzo e poi sono tornato in ufficio, cent’anni fa, e nella rivista che avevo in mano.

London. Always London. For better, for worse, and everything in between. If it didn’t start in London, it definitely passed through — be it Karl Marx or Jimi (who ended up staying…). Legend has it Bob Dylan played the Troubadour, and here, in the spirit of intellectual honesty, I decided to check whether that was the London one or the Los Angeles one. I find out that the LA venue opened its doors inspired by the English one, which had started up three years earlier (we’re talking 1950s here). Anyway, confirmed: Dylan performed at this West London den of counterculture in 1962, as a complete unknown. Paul Simon, Hendrix, Elvis (… Costello), and plenty of others also did it. This is where the Black Panthers found a shelter, having fled France; where the satirical magazine Private Eye was born. So then, I see no reason why I shouldn’t be lucky enough to stumble into an unforgettable evening of unconventional music — because that’s the worst-kept secret if you want to hear something authentic, whether you’re in London, LA, or New York. Just go out and open your ears.

It’s mid-June. It’ll probably be dark by the time the gig ends — though since the Troubadour’s performances take place in the basement, sunlight doesn’t get down there anyway. Tonight we got Sugar Darling, the Deniros, and Flat Moon. Three bands, adding up to about a dozen musicians, a lovely bunch of talented peculiar individuals. Based on how much I enjoyed Sugar Darling before, I can’t possibly miss them again — although live music has really made a comeback in London, megacities like this may bombard you with so many events, it’s overwhelming before you even leave the house. It’s eight o’clock. Actually no — half an hour later. Same everywhere, isn’t it?

If ‘Surprise’ was the keyword when I first saw and wrote about them, now I should use ‘Awareness’. Sugar Darling are spectacular. Relentless, both in how they play and in their mad stage presence. They dance, mime along to the songs, they sweat, jump, make faces. It’s like some kind of mental asylum aesthetic applied to some seriously well-trained musicianship — both technical and compositional. Their songs may be complex, but they’re above all fun, refreshing, with multiple layers of meaning — something for everyone, really. They’re like the t-shirts they wear: illogical yet stylish and cool. Honestly, there should be a neon warning before each of their gigs — the casual listener might not survive the shock. It’s a band I would sign on the spot.

Dazed by a dessert upstairs — which reminds me that the Troubadour is now a restaurant — I head back down into the dark and find myself appreciating the slow, full, unstoppable sound of the Deniros. They feel like they’ve stepped straight out of a ’60s film — maybe directed by Tarantino or Sergio Leone. Colourful guitars, equally colourful shirts. No faffing about, and they connect well with the crowd, delivering a tight, sincere set. I’d have gladly listened for another hour — my ears wouldn’t have complained.

This rediscovery of West London and the Troubadour wraps up with the performance by Flat Moon — another bunch of lunatics, possibly from another planet. Two guitars, various vocals (in and out), a bass, a sax, a percussionist, keyboards, a theremin, a drummer. Organised chaos. Fast-paced, moderately complex tunes, a continuous upbeat — it felt like being in a rhythm supermarket. I don’t know if it was Zappa, but by the end, people were dancing — which made me question the real essence (or purpose?) of all that joyful madness. They definitely deserve a bigger stage (in fact, need it — they were practically on top of each other), ideally without the loo entrance just right to the stage. Their keyboardist/percussionist, in one final moment of perfectly measured madness, picks up a telephone receiver and listens intently to it during the last long note of their final number. I’ve no idea what he was listening to. He sees I’ve noticed him. He smiles. We understand each other — the two of us. The beauty of nonsense — dynamic, liberating, no frills yet lots of frills.

Still, whether it’s for the cigarette break I don’t take, or just to give my eardrums a rest between bands, I step outside, upstairs. And it’s now blatantly clear how the Troubadour is, above all, a restaurant. Music still happens, tucked away down there in the basement — as if they’re doing a favour to those who’ve bought a ticket (and drinks, and we all know how expensive booze is, in London). Yes, there are portraits, photos, stuff on the walls — Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Freddie and many others. But that’s just memorabilia. Tonight, there are no miserable cover bands. This isn’t the Cavern Club in Liverpool. Tonight is all original music, brand new, freshly baked.

So I head home with this thought: live music — one of the most essential aspects of music since the dawn of time — still happens. It persists not because of past glories and their dusty souvenirs, but thanks to new bands. Like Sugar Darling, the Deniros, or Flat Moon (and many others). If not for those brave enough to keep playing live today, places like the Troubadour would be nothing more than a sad pin on the map — “where Bob Dylan once sang a song.” In that case, you might want to open a McDonald’s there instead — easier profit.

(adapted/translated from the original Italian article on SpazioRock.it)

Esco dall’albergo, scendo giù in strada, il centro del Cairo è una costante marea di rumore, sempre alta, frastornante. Nelle orecchie conservo il silenzio delle due camere interne della Piramide Rossa, dove in tarda mattinata ho avuto la fortuna di passarci interminabili minuti in completa solitudine e quiete, proprio alle porte del Sahara, senza alcun turista né prima né dopo di me. La Piramide Rossa è la terza piramide più grande al mondo, ma non si trova nella piana di Giza e rappresenta la prima vera piramide secondo gli egittologi. Ora invece salgo sul taxi e chiedo di portarmi in una piccola galleria d’arte a nord a Zamalek, l’isola cittadina al centro del Nilo. Fa sufficientemente caldo, sono le sette di sera, una forma di grigio color d’inquinamento caratterizza l’aria, mi rendo conto che la respirazione non mi è così naturale come dovrebbe essere, ma penso anche che venti milioni di egiziani qui ci si sono abituati. Il taxi è imbottigliato nel traffico, l’aria condizionata è debole ma basta a rendere quel soggiorno nell’abitacolo tanto fresco quanto ovattato, coi finestrini su, nella bolgia del dinamico traffico della capitale. I semafori contano poco, le strisce pedonali sono introvabili.

Sembrava una lampada, penso.

Il Sole che avevo scorto un minuto prima, sbucare lì tra i palazzi, mi era sembrato una lampada alogena, bianca, luminosa e ben delineata. L’ho visto per appena pochi secondi, il tempo di non credere ai miei occhi, che non poteva trattarsi della Luna. Era il Sole, offuscato e addomesticato dallo smog, uno schermo di polvere nociva alla razza umana riduceva la nostra stella a un disco bianco e soffocato. Volevo rivederla quella versione di Sole, e inizio a guardare a destra e a sinistra dai finestrini, preso da una smania di guardare meglio cosa l’uomo era stato in grado di fare, con i tubi di scappamento, le ciminiere e i generatori.

Aspetto che esca il Sole, penso, non nel cielo ma tra i palazzi, che trovi lui uno spiraglio per noi, prima che soffochi, si spenga o perda conoscenza. Aspetto che il dio Ra si manifesti, in qualche modo, nonostante l’Uomo. Continuo a cercarlo, faccio mente locale, l’isola di Zamalek è a ovest del Cairo, dove finisce la capitale e inizia Giza, che le piramidi sono l’oltretomba e tutto ciò che muore è al di là del fiume, verso la California, avevo letto. Tutto quello che nasce e sorge invece viene da est, dalla Cina, dall’India. Penso insomma che il Sole, visto che sono le sette di sera, debba essere verso quel lato della macchina, se solo le strade del Cairo fossero state fatte a pianta romana, magari avrei avuto una chance.

Dietro di me, dai finestrini, tento pure dai retrovisori ma nulla, mentre l’autista starà pensando io stia soffrendo di una qualche forma di attacco maniacale.

Vedo una coppia che si bacia impunemente per strada, lei donna bianca inglese di probabili cinquant’anni, lui alto e nero, giovane uomo non oltre la trentina. Lei innamorata, lui consapevole. Lei l’Europa appassita e lui l’Antico Egitto, dal sud, dalle sorgenti del Nilo, dall’inizio.

Aspettando il sole, Questa è la vita più strana che abbia mai conosciuto, qui sul Pianeta Terra.

Arrivo a destinazione, la galleria d’arte espone quadri deludenti, ne esco che la sera ha iniziato il suo turno di lavoro.

Il Dio Ra sarà andato a dormire nel vento caldo che scorre tra la piramide Rossa e quella Romboidale, una a Sud e una a Nord.

Mi chiedo chi sarà allora il prossimo faraone.