Reach the world in a city dedicated to burning tires. The chemical breakdown of rubber – carbon black plus sulfur, the formula of hell – covers the sky over his hometown of Akron, Ohio, the tire incineration capital of the world. Goodyear, Rubber, Goodrich and Bridgestone cauldrons are burning the last air before acid rain and the greenhouse effect. Then he begins his filming in this world.
Blue eyes between raccoon rings. High cheekbones Burning ring on deadly gaze. Pick nose to cut the fire. Christine Ellen Hynde writes: “I remember the acrid smell of rubber factories, that particular whiff you breathe when you start a racing car” (Reckless: My Life as a Pretender, 2015). In that same autobiography, he recalls the Seneca Indians baptizing the area as ohi-yo, ‘beautiful river’. Remember the afternoon train, the lagoon, the geese. He remembers looking at his shoes for a whole day that first time his skull was blown out by LSD. Was 16 years old.
Damn my love
Now he is 66 and it seems to him that experimenting with drugs is “sinking into the murky mud.” That is to say, in the place where his former musicians and lovers James Honeyman-Scott, who died in 1982 of a heart attack after taking cocaine, and Pete Farndon, drowned in a bathtub in 1983 for over heroin, rest. Both particularly endearing being original members of Pretenders, a collective founded in 1978 that never existed as a band.
Or rather, that it exists as a pseudonym for that soloist and sexually aggressive tornado that is its founder, whose mileage compromises half the history of rock since he decided to change the hell of rubber for the raw asphalt infested with needles, safety pins and protopunk: the London Malcolm McLaren and his Sex Pistols. Wandering, marginal, collector of wounds, rejected by Devo, The Damned, The Clash, Visage and The Stooges, she would finally realize the dream of her own band from that block of moving parts where she is even unstable.
As unstable is his heart, crossed by Nick Kent (journalist), Fradji Memi (The Frenchies), Mick Jones (The Clash), Lemmy (Motörhead), John Barry (composer), JP Jones (singer). Frustrated wife of Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten, fleeting lover of Iggy Pop, faced with a toxic relationship with Ray Davies (leader of Kings and father of her eldest daughter), abandoned by Jim Kerr (voice of Simple Minds and father of her second daughter ), briefly married to the Barranquilla designer Lucho Brieva.
Before all that, something disgusting: she is raped in Ohio by the Heavy Bikers, a gang of bikers whom the victim, unusually, ends up justifying. “If I’m walking around in my underwear and I’m drunk, whose fault could it be? If I’m discreetly dressed and someone attacks me, I’d say it’s their fault. But if you provoke and excite, you are tempting someone who is already deranged. If you don’t want to goad a rapist, don’t wear heels that prevent you from escaping from him. If you wear something that says ‘come and fuck me’, you’d better run fast. ”
Don’t get me wrong
The massive condemnation she received for being so ugly – geniuses also shoot themselves at her feet – was gradually tempered by the shock wave of Alone (2016), the tenth studio album that put her back on an unattainable pedestal: steely, luxurious, sweetly garage, traveling from groove to soul and country to bolero in an impeccable composite of ballads and speed breaks, the house’s trademark.
With all its lights and shadows, this is how the heiress of Patti Smith and opening act for Phil Collins in his South American foray arrives in Lima. Operating directly on Madonna, considerably more frontal than Kate Bush, Joni Mitchell, The Slits, Debbie Harry, Linda Ronstadt, Kim Gordon or PJ Harvey, none like Chrissie Hynde to narrate with ease the intrahistory of hippism, punk and glam while throwing firebombs to McDonald’s and diatribes against meat, motors, industrial agriculture, tobacco, alcohol, weapons and medicines based on their activism for animal rights and veganism.
Nine studio sphericals, four compilations, two live and 33 singles, in addition to the strange album ¿soloist? Stockholm (2014), make up a strange example of ductility and absolute temporal validity. Because nothing else is that punk vomit heeled toward the rushing tide of sixties brit-beat. So that the sweet contralto of her voice floats over that stormy sea without losing an iota of the power of the past, the one that raised her as a kind of dominatrix with a Fender Telecaster in thermal drag towards a maliciously erotic and captivating mist. Amen.
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