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To give my alter-ego what is his due, I honestly can't remember the last time I was so into a concert; it must have been over 30 years ago, perhaps Jingo De Lunch, Amy like Yvonne, each as phenomenal as the other, the Sniffers just as devastating as the Jinx.
Only I would have bet everything on the Jinx, on the Sniffers less than nothing, nothing on Amy arriving in Cesena, and when she points the microphone towards the audience, they shout back the songs of this “romantic hooligan” (the definition coming from Maestro Cilìa and it fits perfectly) and they don't miss a syllable ...
Amy arrived in Cesena from Milan and from a very cool event, hard and pure rock'n'roll in the way of Virgin Radio, where she and the Sniffers opened the evening before the pathetic Weezer and those Green Day for whom I lack epithets took the stage, and I like to believe they did it just to honor a commitment made two years ago that then fell through; it should've been a concert then, it's just a concert now, I don't know if they played “GFY” and said goodbye with the middle finger prominently displayed, but it would have been a fantastic send-off, then Weezer and Green Day go their way garnering oceanic attendance, Amy and the Sniffers go their way with a following of about a thousand dedicated fans in Cesena.
Most importantly, the Sniffers arrived in Cesena after a year of wandering around the United States and the United Kingdom: about 40 years ago, a similar experience marked the beginning of the end for the likes of Radio Birdman and Lipstick Killers while Amyl And The Sniffers emerged as the only hope punk has of surviving in this century; I know too that the comparison isn't apt, but it still says a lot about the stature of Amy, Bryce, Dec, and Gus.
… About twenty songs, an hour or so of thrashing around like a madwoman on stage backed by a frightening wall of sound and if Amy learned her part quickly, it's impressive how fast the other three caught up with her in the last year, and whether it's due to a year spent touring every other day or the help of, in its own way, the record multinational that snagged a deal with the Sniffers, I care little.
I only care about that score of songs played with a fast and slovenly hard edge like the Cosmic Psychos in the '80s — still them, the Sniffers' essential source of attitude: I recall the assault of “Gacked on Anger,” that “Security” halfway through the concert, which now as a year ago remains the best stuff since Social Distortion’s “Don’t Drag Me Down” and that mishmash of punk, hardcore, and metal that is “Don’t Need a Cunt,” and that dog-eat-dog text that Amy yells at you with endearing brazenness and disarming smile while the other three piece together a fiercely tough grittiness, but you can still see even from the last row that at that moment they're having as much fun as Amy...
Then, it's true that for some years now my passion is a last-row passion but it’s still a passion, and today Amy too at the dawn of her 30s doesn't stage dive as often as at the debut, meaning that one way or another, time passes for everyone.
But I also know that the last will be first so it matters little or nothing to give up the front line of heads that thrash if I have the chance to greet and thank those of Area Pirata who are there to support Not Moving even if at the last minute their concert is canceled — evening started badly — and to hell with the front line if then nearby a blonde and three lads in t-shirt and jeans pass by, another four who surely don’t care about the front row; I stare at them fixedly because they seem like THEM even if no one notices them, for once I send shyness, embarrassment, and fear of making a fool of myself to hell and when I call out to them they come closer and smile almost surprised I recognized them — truly Amy without makeup and styling is a whole different person, in my own way much cuter, and so I’ve also given a professional tone to this page’s mess — just like when in the days of homemade tapes and interviews they were surprised that someone in Italy could know a band barely known in their neighborhood. Maybe the smiles, the handshakes, and a couple of phrases brokenly thrown out there in my shiver-inducing English mean little or nothing but even now I can't imagine a better way to head toward the last row.
… But did they play “Pleasure Forever”? And “Westgate”? And “Some Mutts,” did they do “Some Mutts”? How would I know, damn it, I shook Amy’s hand and what remains is only the impression of a boiling, hard and squared mass like a monolith, which certainly doesn’t exist but in my head is the only thing that conveys the idea.
What a great band Amyl And The Sniffers are.
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