AA. VV.
Summer of Love

It was supposed to be titled Uriah Heep - Gypsy.

But then I would have wronged both Uriah Heep and the gypsy queen and David Copperfield. And by magic, the latter would have already made me disappear.

So forget it. Let's start again.

A few years ago. Arena of the former racetrack in my city. That is: an abandoned area near the port, where weeds are gaining ground. And it’s an inexorable advance. Until some time ago there were still two goals (without nets) and you could bring a ball and have a kickabout, just for fun. Then the goals disappeared, but the horses did not return in their place.

Space. Track. Make room. There's an attempt to organize the socio-cultural-musical event of the year, but also of the last 10 years. And if you like, even of the 10 that preceded them. Assuming that future generations won't manage to do better.

The Summer Of Love.

And what an original name, future generations would say.

In reality, it's a long-term project, spread over several years: in a year there will be a Summer IN Love, in two years a Summer FOR Love, in three years a Summer TO Love, and so on. The preposition changes, the substance remains the same: a mega-revival under the banner of the '60s/'70s Ròcche, the starz are the local bandz that made history - and which history? The history of the area.

But beware – beware - of talking about “nostalgic” revival. Other revivals are nostalgic; this is the Summer Of Love. This is Woodstock on the Riviera. Music, free love, good vibrations. In the third millennium.

“Yes, but the real Summer Of Love was in '67...? Not really the same as Woodstock...” "Well, whatever... then "Monterey on the Riviera" doesn’t sound as good... what do I know… say Monterey and you think of Zorro, not Janis Joplin".

Exactly.

Then I set out for Woodstock, and if I didn't live nearby like Dylan, I'd rather have ended up like the Iron Butterfly, who, on their way to the festival, got stuck in New York: caught in traffic. It's August, and we're on the waterfront, after all. Only this time the traffic jam is not due to the three days of 'peace love & music'. It is for another festival, the one of bluefish and clam spaghetti.

Hindered from the start by the clam overlap, the Woodstock of the Riviera struggles to take off. Upon my arrival, a decent illumination brightens the arena. There is no mud like in Woodstock, but there are mosquitoes already in battle formation. Not to mention about forty chairs waiting to be filled, and which will wait in vain. Behind the stage and a cardboard floral panel as a backdrop, rests the caravan of a newly arrived German family. They've mistaken the unfenced arena for a campsite, but it’s better this way (they’ll say): it all seems very hippie, very flower power, very Woodstock. They could be Amon Düül (II? No, perhaps I) as the revival’s guests of honor. If it weren't for some knee-high socks that, just looking at them, make you sweat and itch more than Germany's jerseys at Mexico '70.

The organizers, the presenters, the dei ex machina of Peace & Love step on stage. There are three of them. The first one looks like the reincarnated Maharishi Yogi, just emerged from the waters of the Ganges. A chorus of Hare Krishna seems to accompany his entrance. When the Beatles cover band arrives, he exhausts all his spiritual energy trying to pronounce Don’t Let Me Down with a decidedly British accent. It’s very hippie and very George Harrison, one must recognize. The second has just left the set of Dallas: big Texan hat, cowboy shirt, boots. This isn’t very hippie, rather not at all, but well - it all adds up, or as they say in Texas, it all makes oil. The third is the true jewel: an eyeglass-wearing freakettone writhing in strange aimless gestures. He resembles Paul Kantner (rest his soul) at Fillmore West, and that’s the drama: unlike Paul Kantner (rest his soul) at Fillmore West, it seems he hasn't taken anything.

And then, the concert. The worst, and perhaps it could have been guessed, are the local Beatles - who at every step display that typical attitude of "we're not here to sing Help! and Ticket to Ride or Lady Jane or Yesterday to you, also because, to be honest, Lady Jane isn’t even something we should be singing, and you should know this'; and they prefer to review the less inflated pages of the Liverpudlians' repertoire, starting with 'Honey Don’t. Which then wouldn’t even be by the Beatles, but try explaining that to the ten people present, who surely expect Help! and Ticket to Ride or... well. The fact remains that, listening to their 'Honey Don\'t', for three minutes, I have the sensation that Ringo Starr is Sinatra.