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Rating: Ostuni gleams in the background, splendid, illuminated by the evening lights. I have just bought the concert ticket, and my girlfriend has spotted Manuel. She called out to Manuel, and he quickened his pace, avoiding her. They say he's a bit of a jerk. I want to talk to him to tell him how important he is to me, him and his poetry. But when I see him eating at a Liberation Day stand, I can't bring myself to approach him. It's that I'm afraid he'll act too much of a jerk, I couldn't stand it. On the other hand, I shake hands with Giorgio Prette and am hugely relieved to find that he is very friendly.
The Afterhours make us wait, it's nothing new. An hour in the crowd with people huffing seems too little to me, I'm used to something more. Then the usual light shows, a pleasant presentation interlude by a genuinely (and stereotypically) left-wing speaker, and here they come. They enter quickly while a pack of screamers behind me chants the usual tonsil-exposing cheers.
Manuel approaches, him and his red shirt, slightly long hair, with a star's stride. He brings his lips to the microphone and whispers "Hi" while he holds his Gibson.
And it starts, what I came from Bari for, what I've seen them for so many other times: sweat, poetry, and blood. They've never held back, at least since I've followed them. They make no exception in front of the white city, on a night of stars and moon. The first pieces are a barrage from the latest album, strung like beads of a rosary, fast, without comments: “La vedova bianca”, “Ballata per la mia piccola iena”, “E’ la fine la più importante”, “La sottile linea bianca”. It seems they want to vent the fumes of a nearby annoyance, like this, with simple notes.
But His Majesty's voice is already present and already embraces those who came to mosh, push, shout, or close their eyes. The sound, as at other times, is not completely right: there is confusion at times sought, at times involuntary. The guitars don't always stand out. But the animalistic screams behind me seem to say it's just rock and roll, after all: we're not at the conservatory.
Then the jerk on stage starts to talk a little, smiles, and tells us he doesn't want to seem like a sycophant. They start "Sui giovani d’oggi ci catarro su" and the audience responds with the right violence.
The repertoire is very different from the previous tour, and so only three songs from "Quello che non c’è" survive: a splendid “Quello che non c’è,” the intense “Sulle labbra,” and “Bye bye Bombay.” Completely skipping "Non è per sempre," the band dedicates themselves to the first two albums in Italian.
We find ourselves listening to "Plastilina" (amid the perplexity of many and my own enjoyment), while I too deposit my tonsils on the railings when "Strategie" explodes. Damn it, yes, "Strategie".
Of course, "Rapace" is not missing, with the forest of arms and fingers pointed upwards.
“Male di miele”, strangely slow but always engaging.
“Dea” is sung by Dario Ciffo, with Manuel limiting himself to shouting, like the rest of us.
In the wave from the past slips the recent “Carne fresca”, then I surely forgot something, but that's how it is.
Two encores and many songs later, here's the best conclusion: “Il compleanno di Andrea”, with Dario as the leading actor if it weren’t for Manuel’s rough velvet sending you into orbit, like he managed to do during almost the entire damned concert.
Here I am, on the last notes, on the final "Thank you," whispered as usual with that damned cool air, thinking that I don't care. Maybe in life Agnelli is the king of arrogant people, but what matters are the emotions he manages to give me. They remain unique, despite those who talk nonsense saying he’s washed up.
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