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The Forte is an open stage nestled in the Mestre marshes, consisting of two old abandoned buildings that have sprouted the most improbable fair trade second-hand shops and a decadent Liberty-style bar-lounge, complete with sunken armchairs and some reclaimed tables. All of this surrounded by swamps and trees. Not bad.
I arrive with the kids when it's still early, look around and notice that all of Venice that doesn't feed solely on reggae is here, which means not many people. (In Venice, even the canals are in syncopation…)
The stage is as simple as they come: a table, two turntables, and a Mac worth who knows how many thousands of euros… no screens, minimal lights. Nothing else is needed. We hardly notice and the guy takes to the stage, stretches his long octopus-like tentacles over the turntables, and in the blink of an eye, we're wrapped in a muddy and humid sound, effortlessly pulling us into the swamp… it’s at this point, though, after just a few minutes, that he starts dragging us really down, with beats rising from the depths and descending spirals that leave that feeling of compression and suffocation like diving into the abyss without a respirator.
Gradually, the atmosphere turns more synthetic, and the seabed becomes like a cage of sounds and pulsating sonar, occasionally a nod, a cigarette lit, and the octopus becomes an accomplice of a game that's succeeding greatly.
Few glimpses of light filter from the surface, only to be immediately swallowed by that continuous downward spiral created with style and simplicity. Some syringes of acid sounds occasionally sting, but like good medicine, they take effect immediately, get absorbed by the organism, and circulate with pleasant effects.
When, from the suction cups of his tentacles, he lets burst pure ninja sound flowers, liters and liters of sticky syncopated beats flow from his fingers, causing a frenzy among the audience completely at ease at the bottom of the sea.
Suddenly, we find ourselves projected upwards, and for a moment, we put our heads above water and there appears a Brazilian beach all covered in cellophane, a hint of doped samba is enough to render the illusion. But it’s only a mirage, and just enough time to catch a breath, we dive back down, swimming in a sea of next-generation drum’n’bass, seasoned with liters of pure style.
Breathless, we reach the end, incredulous of the journey he managed to take us on with extreme ease, without ever forcing his hand, without ever resorting to banality or predictable sounds, even when spinning tracks that flirt with rap.
For the finale, he decides to tinker with a metal piece, and between Pantera-style riffs and double pedals turned into hardcore beats, we find ourselves wishing that next time a vintage Morricone record might fall into his hands (as a certain friend of his wants to do...) or something by Bobby Solo. That would be interesting.
Stunning.
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