Garan by Cookie Snake
I toured Italy with the violist from a band called Rachel’s. He put together “FW”, a four-piece: viola, bass, drums, and a scratch DJ. (Dominic Johnson, Jason Wood, and DJ Pablo.) One show was in the southern, Calabrian mountain town of Santa Sofia D'epiro. Music there curved predominantly Rastafarian. The promoter put us in a marble floor home overlooking the tightly rolled, spliff-filtered, stained glass canopy of the Sila plateau. His family’s restaurant cooked gnocchi, and at dusk he lead us through Santa Sofia‘s main street to the amphitheater like the Pied Piper, signaling everyone to follow. En route, there were espressos, and the mountain air gnawed fresco faces into ganglia and skin. We arrived at the club satiated and arranged. The town was there and out. Old, young, molded, unmolded. Every window open. Every scent binary and sent. Nuns were there and dancing. A hallucinated beetle-monster the size of a schoolbus with mollusk, whale teeth rose out of hillside shrubs and consumed the scene. In its jaws, it aerated, animated, and saw its own life. Someone in the audience pressed record on a portable recording device, and we began to play the song above. (Dedicated to Mama Bruno, who taught me Italian, Italian soap operas, and life. RIP.)
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