Bentrovate e bentrovati a una nuova puntata del podcast di “Memoria polaroid – un blog alla radio”, la trasmissione in onda ogni settimana da Bologna sulle frequenze di NEU Radio. Apriamo le danze celebrando il ventennale di Candinista, il leggendario album d’esordio delle Black Candy, e poi viaggiamo da Vancouver a Göteborg, dalla Nuova Zelanda alla Gran Bretagna, passando anche per il nostro…

True outsiders aren’t just peculiar; they’re totally unreliable, strange beyond poseurs. That was Beat Happening, a band as likely to charm you with nursery rhymes of lovers in the American northwest as they were to beguile with twisted, squealing dementedness. Jamboree typifies that volatility, but, to some extent, so do all the group’s records. After the debut, each Beat Happening record balances – well, balances isn’t quite the word. Imbalances, perhaps – a mix of light and dark, charm and grot, emotional simplicity and complexity.

She landed hard on her back out the other side of the veil-tear with a muffled whuph of air. As soon as it appeared, the light of the portal shrunk away.

“No--no! Megaria, you treacherous wretch--!” 

And the portal disappeared. A scream howled out of her in futility as she beat her hands against the ground. A lapse passed before her breathing settled and she felt her blood pressure lower enough to think coherently again. Gregoria rolled over onto her side and her feet caught the ground beneath her. When she rose, white fluttered down from her cape. Snow. Cold and pale. 

Her gloves tucked into the white powder. She brought a heap of it close to her mask, eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the substance. There wafted up the slightest sweet scent that made her brow crease. Her head rose to assess further her surroundings. Another smell--the herbal note of mint. She drew her blade from where it sat at her waist, refraining from letting her arm lax too much as her boots plodded through the snow. 

At her right stood a narrow tree encircled by alternating bands of red and white. Her fingers slid along the satiny surface of the bark--she swore it too smelled of mint. Perhaps the trees were an aromatic plant not dissimilar. Her hand peeled away with a tacky noise and she recoiled in disgust. 

Gregoria’s eyes widened.  A finger pried beneath her mask. One lick and she froze.  Eyes flickered up to the crooked arc of the treetop, then down to her hand.

“You’re kidding me.” 

She looked around her. More of the same trees, mountains of powdery white. Some ways off on the horizon stretched a colorful band of hills. Her eyes caught the pink of a sign and Gregoria hurried over to read whatever illuminating information it had to offer. 

“Peppermint...forest...?” her voice cracked. “Kalima’s blood--” She snarled and slashed the sign in half.