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Rating: "We have to be there before ten, so we can see if Fabio can get us in"
This was the premise. The objective was to go to the Rolling Stone. The event was the concert of Giuliano Palma & the Bluebeaters.
The detail is that I hate that band. Viscerally, for the music they make and for the people who go to see them. I don’t like people who dance ska or reggae. Yes, it’s a form of racism, a kind of annoyance.
The reason my friend and I wanted to hurt ourselves and probably pay the 12 euro entrance fee was to attend the 20-minute performance as the opening act for Ameba4, with whom my friend worked in the studio recording the album.
The phone contacts were made, the time set. We arrive slightly late, can't find parking, leave the car on a sidewalk, cross our fingers, and start queuing. I already find queues annoying, and we were like black sheep among the army of Palmipeds. Optimistically, we join the queue, try a new phone contact, but the singer's phone is off, and so is the bassist's. The people in line fuel up with beer after beer, a habit that from my position as a chronic teetotaler I've never been able to understand. We resign ourselves to paying the entrance fee.
We enter and position ourselves in the arena where the stage is undergoing the final touches. It's a melee; people keep drinking, crowding, and I wonder how all this is possible. We get drinks in the classic plastic cups, low-quality stuff that will cost us a nice 6 euros; the bartender, already drunk, gives us a Cuba Libre.
When the concert starts and the infamous Bluebeaters enter, we wonder if the tradition of the opening band starting the concert is lost; maybe they'll play afterward? We wander a bit in the venue, find it and the people even more dull. Two girls sitting alone on a couch are, in turns, surrounded by ridiculous guys who think they're the first to pull out an Excalibur too well planted in the rock. We discover that in certain rooms people even smoke.
There are girls dressed as floozies wandering aimlessly, a young woman almost falls on us since she can barely stand. Disturbing individuals, motionless a moment before, suddenly animate into a frantic puppet dance. We try to call again, and they finally answer.
The moral of the story: the opening band played at ten-twenty, more or less while we were still queuing. We immediately leave the venue, disgusted. Perhaps too used to arena concerts, we couldn't believe an event could start with a queue still outside the entrance. The website only mentioned the opening time, no event start time. We eat a gut-busting hot dog, and with relief find the car where we left it. I've seen De Gregori at the Mazdapalace and Forum for 20 euros without missing a note, so I wonder why I spent 18, drank terrible drinks, watched wasted people, and didn’t hear even a note of what I wanted.
Returning home and thinking back to that melee, from the recesses of my brain come these beautiful lines by Waters: "Is everyone in? Are you having a nice time? Now the final solution can be applied". And a smile appears on my lips.
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