Mola's music is the unadorned antithesis to a rosy world. She celebrates herself to death, pulls you into her inner chaos and does without the usual romanticizing transfigurations of the merciless disorientation that catches up with you on the way home after the last cigarette.
Mola knows best of all that she is a border commuter - and she has never made a secret of it. Perhaps it was fate that the course of events abandoned her shortly after her birth in Erba, Italy, in Germany's most austere metropolis. In Munich, where free flying and free falling are a bit more complicated than in the cesspool of Berlin, where one would naturally place Isabella Streifeneder and her music if one didn't know better. Temporarily reduced intimate, to then escalate in iconic 80s "Purpel Rain" pathos, Mola illustrates the emotional chaos that the inner dialogue of left and right brain triggers in her. Unconventional pop music that bundles the nonchalance of great soul anthems, the grace of the Italo-disco of the eighties and the ingenuousness of lascivious hip-hop bangers, instead of trying to sound modern by force. Mola celebrates defeat, exposes life lies, criticizes adulthood, documents radical mood swings. She balances along the abyss in a ball gown, jokes about what you don't joke about, praises and curses intoxication and love - "Vino Bianco no longer tastes like dolce vita, it only tastes like losing." You can see Mola after sold out "Nothing breaks me" shows in Munich, Cologne,
Berlin & Hamburg, you can now see Mola supporting Fatoni, Roy Bianco & the Abbrunzati Boys, Mayberg and Kaffkiez in a strobe light storm. In addition to a festival season that couldn't have been more beautiful to imagine, they finally have a big tour of their own coming up for their next album, which will see the light of day in September.
After more than 40 festivals "snow in the summer" on famous stages like the
Lollapalooza Berlin, Rocken am Brocken, Puls Open Air, but also as support for Udo Lindenberg at the Hermann Hesse Festival, "Life is beautiful", the darned second record, sounds almost cynical, ironic or simply naive? In the end, it doesn't matter, because when this spontaneous feeling, far removed from any rationality, overcomes you, you don't ask questions. It tastes like the melancholy of a summer in its last breaths after the last drink of an uncompromisingly insane night.
There is sweating, pogoing and feeling together. Even where it hurts.
You are not just an onlooker or a silent spectator, but a part of this empowering
feeling of "we".