A typical product of 1970s Italy, giallo movies were first and foremost a death trip into the abyss of the psyche, a feast of blood and perversion imbued with a heavy dose of LSD. Twenty years later, the Sound of Rome updated the giallo sensibility to be compatible with the cast-iron will of the machine, messing up the circuitry of the human brain with a quasi-sadistic taste for grim obsession and dead-end insanity. Its mental qualities perhaps explain why the Sound of Rome never seemed interested in trying to sound blatantly ‘futuristic’. At its core, to quote one of Lory D’s infamously delirious texts, were the labyrinths of ‘the metropolis of the mind’.
After all, Rome wasn’t a vast, grey industrial metropolis like London or Detroit. It was a neglected city of ruins on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea, baked by the deadly rays of a tyrannical Black Sun, its peripheries an infinite sprawl where time is eternal and the future never arrives because it has already taken place in some long forgotten past.