•
Rating: Tonight I caress the air. Only I know why.
The first impression is that you can afford not to know the White Lies because you wouldn't miss much; they're an appetizer with a silvered guitar, served overcooked and in a hurry, while the main course you're craving is already calling from the menu hanging to the right of the entrance door. Earlier, from outside, I heard something from the Cloud Control and they seemed more interesting. I lie on the grass and enjoy a Coca Cola Chupa Chups, and there's no one around, just me. Sit and wait, they tell me. I sit and wait. One thing I adore is the wind; it always seems to want to clean the present, and there's just the right amount tonight. The Arcade Fire make us wait just long enough; they're not a bride indulging in vain and exasperating delays, nor are they a British lord with impeccable timing; they're Canadians who respect timing and never miss. I saw them at the Eurockeennes in Belfort in 2007, playing as the closing act; back then, I had long hair, I was shaven, and I wore a dark blue V-neck shirt with "Let's do it now" written in black, a strong tone, and a pair of wristbands from my collection that now lies in a drawer gathering dust. There must be about fifty of them, memories of when I would decide on a pair to match my shirt before leaving the house. That day I chose two green and white ones, which matched well enough with what I was wearing. My love for color had just been born. It rained back then, not today; today I wear a light blue Merc London shirt and an gold bracelet on my wrist. I struggle to light a cigarette due to the wind, bless it, preparing an answer for those who will ask me to donate money for Haiti, poor people, saying I've already spent everything to feed myself. And it's not even an excuse; I nourish myself with a rustichella and a Tennent's outside, inside the Arena they only have a damn Nastro Azzurro, fine, give me a medium, then another, and my wallet ends up empty; I donated something to Haiti a while ago anyway. There's also a vinyl stall where I would have gladly bought "The Wall" with the crossed hammers on the cover. Oh well, I would have only used it as a decoration since I'm missing a turntable. Timing is everything in life, in personal relationships, it's an unconscious bond that helps you understand who can be by your side without encroaching on the space you need.
The Arcade Fire take the stage while the Milan sky turns burgundy, I get up from where I was lying, understanding that this is their moment. The only one it could be, and it was. "Ready To Start," oh yes. Then what I was waiting for, a piece of my own little personal monument that is "Neon Bible": "Keep The Cars Running," "No Cars Go," "My Body Is A Cage." Among them, also "Haiti." The sky has gone dark by now, I look around and amidst people dancing, nodding, drinking, writing, following, shouting, spraying Autan, I'm always just there, alone. Despite the media consecrations trying to make them a mainstream product at all costs, the Arcade Fire remain one of the best Indie gems of the past decade, I too nod my head and tap my foot to follow that hypnotic rhythm that few know how to bring with such elegance, Win Butler still has the same dumb haircut from 2007 and I think the same short-sleeved blue shirt, speckled in the same way. Meanwhile, mosquitoes have bitten me in places I thought were unreachable for them. Three and a half albums so far, all here: now it's the turn of the debut "Funeral" entrusted to the sugary "Crown Of Love," during which the Canadian bovine forgets the words but has the good grace to admit it - I love these moments when even those on stage show they're human - before the central part dedicated to the more recent "The Suburbs" with its namesake composition, "Month Of May" (May, always such a bastard) and "Rococo." Behind this family-band, faded images on the giant screens (?) accompany the music without the pretense of amazement, the ear remains always in the foreground so much so that I often listen with closed eyes.
I listen, awaiting "Intervention" which finally arrives, before the first "Neighborhood," to remind me that I knew how to wear long hair despite contrary opinions, they play the organ notes (a little lackluster compared to the album version) and next to me is a twenty-four-year-old with the dark blue V-neck shirt and the green and white wristbands that looks at me oddly as I light a Marlboro. What do you want? Nothing, I listen to "Intervention" he tells me. You shouldn't smoke, he adds, then he disappears. Screw you. "We Used to Wait," the third "Neighborhood" and "Rebellion (Lies)" close before the usual, boring but apparently obligatory encore scene, entrusted to "Wake Up" and "Sprawl II," alpha and omega of this group of dancing angels a bit stingy tonight, barely an hour and a half, but that's fine.
I find my bicycle, decide to cross the center, Arco della Pace, Cadorna, Piazza Castello, Via Dante, Duomo, Via Mazzini, Missori, Corso di Porta Romana and beyond. There's a great silence around, everything is quiet. No cars go.
Loading comments slowly
