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Rating: The last time I saw the circle with the letters AHS inscribed was August 25, 2017, at the Radio Onda d’Urto festival. Back then, my mind was hell, and it seemed as if Manuel had written the lyrics of some Afterhours songs by spying through my ventricles and aorta, and many of those lines were in the 2005 album “Ballate Per Piccole Iene,” which is, in fact, the album through which I discovered them that spring. I remember heading back to my hometown that summer, bringing the CD with me, and Filippo – who’s about ten years younger than me and therefore much more on top of things than I was, a man already in his forties – mercilessly roasted me and lent me “Hai Paura del Buio.”
Curt had already been dead for 11 years, and the long wave of Grunge was receding, but that summer of 2005 was a return to distorted sounds and “melodic” noise, thanks to what everyone calls the “Italian Mellon Collie.” And that initial fondness turned to love, the real kind that lasts for years, for the band’s sound and for Manuel’s pen: “Come pararsi il culo/E la coscienza è un vero sballo/Sabato in barca a vela/Lunedì al Leoncavallo,” which is basically the best definition of the “protesters” scattered between Via Solferino, the Porta Nuova bastions, and Corso Como around the ‘90s and the dawn of the new millennium.
Well, that’s not the point. Actually, it’s a matter of several points lying on a plane that should all be equidistant from a fixed point called the center, but sooner or later they start to wobble, drawing out sinusoidal curves that look like monsters. It takes time and luck and, sometimes, all of a sudden, they close up right, and magically, you can flow again.
So, when Sam calls me and tells me about the July 15th concert at Campo Marte, I don’t hesitate—I buy two tickets right away. After all, she’s the one who served up the necessary jolt to send those points spinning absolutely wild so that I could recognize and face the monsters; and she’s also the one who gave me the right measurement for a new—and hopefully final—equilibrium. The closing of the circle deserves a proper ceremony, and Manuel decided to play “Ballate Per Piccole Iene” live, twenty years after its release and eight since my new life began. Thank you, Manuel.
When they start up with “La sottile linea bianca,” the feelings are the same as ever, but as the gig goes on, the anguish loaded into the lyrics and sounds shifts from the particular to the universal. The little hyena isn’t the co-star in my toxic relationship anymore; she’s a woman in her fifties with big blue eyes and dressed in white who has decided to make the sun rise here today and over there tomorrow, as suits her boss with the orange quiff. After all, Ci Sono Molti Modi to lie to your hands, your heart, your kidneys. And there’s always a routine hyena floating around, wearing the void with class.
Even Agnelli himself explained how Ballate per Piccole Iene 2025 isn’t just a revival operation, but a contemporary take on the themes of the work: youthful rage, social rebellion, generational alienation. “That film told the story of kids desperately searching for a future in a world that rejected them. Today, in a world of climate crises, wars, and ever-widening social divides, those same questions still burn,” Agnelli declared, underscoring how the tour is a bridge between the ‘90s and 2025. For me, though, it’s an immersion into a type of rock I can’t find anymore, into songs made of sex and demons, love as a pathology, cocaine, disillusionment, malaise, self-destruction. Manuel’s band for the tour is the same as on the album (Andrea Viti on bass, Dario Ciffo on violin and guitar, and Giorgio Prette on drums; plus Giacomo Rossetti as a solid multi-instrumentalist), and they consciously dived into both new and old anxieties, serving up a performance that was heartfelt, seductive, disturbing—really impressive for its power and unity. If only there were more rock bands like this nowadays!
Yeah, today’s vibe; for young people now, Agnelli is sort of like an uncle who still has some credibility when he urges them to take part, to gather, to do something in person instead of through social networks. The answer to our country’s musical crisis, as he told Rolling Stone a couple of months back, won’t come from artists obsessed with likes, hearts, numbers, and data, but from those who can convince people to mosh, to meet, to engage face to face. But where are these young people? I look around and see a mix of Boomers, Gen X, and Millennials, all in the standard uniform: a rock band T-shirt from some era, from my own Stones shirt to the Smashing Pumpkins tee of the forty-something guy next to me, everyone clutching a lukewarm pint in a plastic cup. Then there’s the task force of the hard core, tattoos distorted by time, cargo shorts, and massive joints between their fingers: all told, about 3,000 folks who think they’re at an event. An event? Three thousand people—is that really an event nowadays? Maybe it’s a bit more than a barbecue, but maybe we’re just survivors—survivors of precarious jobs, divorces, turning forty, and woke culture that’s filed us away as backward. Disillusioned, messed-up types. You can feel the tension between the rejection of a normal life—basically a half-death—and the longing for an alternative, dangerous existence, although, honestly, it’s always scared us a bit. We wear the marks of time, we’re out of date, a bit ridiculous and tipsy, and wish we’d had the guts to bring a little weed, too!
Meanwhile, Manuel sings well and never slips up, his voice and his Thai-Chi-forged biceps both in top shape. The band supports him impeccably, at least until the Ballate celebration is done. A haunting version of De André’s “La canzone di Marinella” divides the show, which then continues with the band’s classic tracks. There’s a bit of a drop in precision and sound quality, but what happens on the grass takes us right back to the good old days—we all sing the classics by heart and even try a bit of action. But it’s pretty bad if we need a tutorial on “how to mosh”! Yeah, that happened, too: Manuel asks us to make space in front of the stage and then instructs us on how to raise hell on his count of three. More like embers for the earlier barbecue than eternal flames, though.
Even so, Manuel is convinced something is changing, telling us about what he sees at Germi: “a venue that gives a stage to artists who don’t have one. Kids between 15 and 30 years old, who actually play instruments and sing without autotune.” He says there’s a huge buzz of young people; he didn’t expect it. Come on, youngsters, if you’re out there, make yourselves known. And call us old (as fuck)—it’s only fair.
Setlist:
- La sottile linea bianca
- Ballata per la mia piccola iena
- È la fine la più importante
- Ci sono molti modi
- La vedova bianca
- Carne fresca
- Male in polvere
- Chissà com'è
- Il sangue di Giuda
- Il compleanno di Andrea
- La canzone di Marinella (Fabrizio De André cover)
- Strategie
- Germi
- Lasciami leccare l'adrenalina
- Dea
- La verità che ricordavo
- Male di miele
- Quello che non c'è
- Non si esce vivi dagli anni '80
- Padania
- Bye Bye Bombay
- Non è per sempre
- Voglio una pelle splendida
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