Four Fried Fish
Catfish for Breakfast
Take four great musicians all together and you get a wonderful band, the Four Fried Fish. Add th
en a wonderful section of winds, the Flyn’ Horns, and you can listen to an amazing cd. If you add to all this some famous guest-stars like the bluesman Marco Pandolfi, the wonderful singer Tiziana Guerra and the excellent musician Chinito Teremoto, you get a masterpiece.
“Catfish for Breakfast” is undoubtedly an important album for Italian jazz. First song: “So Long” transforms your room into a barrelhouse in Chicago: the blue devils take their tool on you as only Albert Collins and Freddie King can do. “Homeway Blues” is a pure standard, both for the lyrics and the daring improvisations. Then facing the swing of “Blues for Mr. G” means getting in touch with the most élitarian, fascinating and dicty jazz. Actually it is dedicated to one of the best jazz guitar player Michele Giacomazzi. From the wild dance you listen to a sexy atmosphere in “Making Love” and the crazier “Honey and bread” which is linked to the jam session “H5N1”. Tiziana Guerra shines with the cover “Three Cool Cats” by Lieber&Stroller where she whispers at the rhythm of the farfisa of Teremoto (a name, an omen). “Maybe a Man” is the perfect end to this full our of ten little masterpieces which bring you to the old South Side. In the end: a wonderful cd.
Original Italian version on ROCKIT: http://www.rockit.it/magazine/album.php?x=00009339
Sai che una volta non vuol dire niente. Sai che due volte non vuol dire sempre (transl: You know that once means nothing, You know that twice doesn’t mean always). You know that only five songs cannot and mustn’t label a band. Maybe in a 12 song album the Jade Shining could better express themselves, just showing something newer than a cover band of the Black Sabbath. Here the hints are scarce. Just at the end of the demo, with “Alba”, the Jade Shining respect their name and start glowing. Good lyrics (Un fiore che profuma di sangue, Colto da dita fredde, Bianche come il sale/ A flower which smells like blood, picked up by cold fingers, as white as the snow), a gloomy guitar riff and the voice which scratches and emerges. The rest is a delusion.
Ilaria Montagni 