•
Rating: Maynard has problems with his eyes.
So he will sing wrapped in darkness and photos with flash will not be allowed (and, while we're at it, not even without).
Maynard has asked not to smoke.
So the handmade cigarette that I, G, Frantz, Cleo, and DavidByrne were smoking is promptly crushed on the floor by a burly bald guy who catches us off guard and leaves us surprised.
In short, Maynard is starting to piss us off even before starting.
And then, are they starting or not?
It's 10 PM (G and I left Bozen at three-thirty to be here by eight), there haven't been any opening acts, the 28€ for the t-shirt were (stupidly, as always) spent, and the beer has been drunk...
They arrive.
Power!
The five are arranged in a pyramid: Jeordie White (aka Twiggy Ramirez, former Marilyn Manson) on bass and guitarist Billy Howerdell in the front line, James Iha (Smashing Pumpkins' guitarist) and Josh Freese (drums) behind, on an elevated platform, and at the back, on an even higher mezzanine is Maynard.
The stage design is sparse, essential, even a bit ugly (at first Maynard appears backlit behind a circular cloth): what matters is the music, I suppose, and that, indeed, is there. Damn, it is.
Maynard's voice is impressive (but even more impressive is the guy who stands between G and me and who sings, or rather yells out screams attempting to mimic the APC frontman: I think when a pig is slaughtered, the sound is similar).
Maynard is good, really good. He tears up his tank top, moves quite a bit (stage presence isn't stellar, in my humble opinion, but I don't think he cares much, actually), makes a few stupid jokes... Well, this leaves me a bit puzzled. Maybe you imagine that a musician with a "cult" aura, a good, talented, and particular musician, is also intelligent... but maybe it's not so. At least that's the impression I get ("Are we enjoying Italy, Jeordie? Are you enjoying us? Are we enjoying you? We are enjoying us!" Shut up and sing, come on.)
He asks Iha to tell a joke in Italian. Iha, of course, tells one in English: "What can you wear that never goes out of style? A smile! That's fun the way we have it in America!" - I had always suspected he was as stupid as he was good. Now I think he's even more so.
Bass and drums really rock and the guy at the mixer manages to make us hear them well: I see G swaying like a big eel, and that means the sound and rhythm base satisfy him (but it must be said that he managed to smoke his part of the handmade cigarette before the big bad guy arrived).
But who really impresses me is the bald guitarist, Billy Howerdell. It's him who wrote the pieces, alright; it's him who leads the team. It's him who makes entrances with the guitar that give real chills. It's him whom I follow most often during the concert.
After what seems like three-quarters of an hour to me, but they will later tell me it was five (an hour and a quarter!), the group leaves the stage. I think I heard, before the last piece, a "See you in Milan!", but I don't pay much attention, I unconsciously choose not to have heard.
We try to get as close as possible to the stage, to enjoy the reprise amid the real chaos.
Strange, we advance quite easily.
Strange, the guys on stage are unplugging the various cables.
Strange, the guys on the damn stage are grabbing the toms of the drums.
But holy crap, it's over! O-V-E-R. Over? Over.
Now: you don't let us smoke. Fine.
You don't let us take photos with flash. Fine.
You never show your face, you sing in a tank top and sweatpants and show us your impending plumpness. Fine.
You make stupid jokes. Fine.
But you can't, you can't leave after so little. No, damn it! (BZ-Rimini-Concert-BZ = 13.5 hours)
And yet, yes.
Loading comments slowly
