Mike Watt formed a group called Il Sogno del Marinaio with guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi in 2009, days before the trio set off on a short tour of Italy. Between gigs, the three decamped to the north to record La Busta Gialla, committing to tape the oddly assembled jams and elaborate latticework with which they'd been peppering their otherwise Watt-heavy sets. The quickly constructed La Busta Gialla makes for a rickety listen, teetering, as it does, between tautly composed prog and loosely formed grooves that seem to fall apart as they totter along. What's most impressive about La Busta Gialla is how much proper band-stuff-- how does this one go, who takes which lead, that sort of thing-- these three managed to work out in just a few days. Watt-- Minutemen co-founder, fIREHOSE frontman, human dynamo, bassist extraordinaire, and one-man embodiment of all of punk's highest ideals-- will talk your ear off about music's ability to bring down the boundaries of language, distance, unfamiliarity. And at its best, La Busta Gialla feels like a conversation between three musicians working towards something communal while still feeling each other out.
Like most of the music Watt's made over the years, La Busta Gialla is at its best when it's on the move. Opener "Zoom" and immediate follower "Partisan Song" are both the album's busiest and best songs; the slightly silly "Zoom" plays a Battles-style game of brickbreaker, while "Partisan" is all post-rock corrosion. The sound here is in constant flux, passing blithely through section after section, and each move keeps you guessing. Watt's playing-- virtuosic but unflashy, melodically daring but never untethered to the tune-- has filtered down through pretty much all the non-cheesy progressive rock that's come in its wake, echoes of which pop up throughout La Busta Gialla. The eternally ageless Watt has always kept an ear to the ground, so it's a thrill to hear him not only in conversation with these two fine young musicians, but with a lot of the music he's inspired (indirectly or otherwise), and he plays the stuff with intensity and drive. He's always been willing to set ego aside to benefit the greater good, but here, he seems especially absorbed into the group dynamic; the bass tends to take the melodic lead, but it's rarely the focal point of these songs. The three read each other remarkably well, moving in lockstep, constantly rearranging themselves.
Things take a turn with "The Tiger Princess". After a few minutes of snaky bass, Watt sidles in, doing his best Randall "Tex" Cobb, imparting a little road-dog wisdom through a mouthful of gravel. It's so grave, so serious, it's borderline silly; mostly, though, it's just a momentum-killer, as all movement seems to halt while Watt does his spiel. Things get a little dicey whenever anyone in Il Sogno opens their mouths; "Il Guardino del Faro" is another Watt rap, this one translated into Italian, delivered over a barely-there bass-and-drone wash. It's not bad once, and I'm sure it was fun live, but amidst the instrumental tug-of-war that surrounds it, "Guardino" just feels limp. Still, the real sticking point here is "Messed-Up Machine". As the name suggests, it's a deeply troubled groove, a driving-on-a-flat wobble that barely holds itself together through seven increasingly excruciating minutes. It's a glorified rehearsal snippet, more exercise than song, the kind of thing that it's hard to imagine making the LP if Watt had had a few more days on his work visa.
As a record, La Busta Gialla's not great, just a hair more curious than pleasurable. Still, you've got to give a guy like Watt credit for his willingness to make a peculiar mistake like "Machine," to link up with young, far-flung talents like Pilia and Belfi just to see how that'd go. At the heart of Watt's legendary raps, there's this notion about the importance of engagement: with your convictions, with your community, with something larger than yourself. So when so many of his contemporaries seem content to sit by the phone and wait for the next documentarian to come calling, Watt's off in Italy, making strange records with near-strangers, forever engaged.
