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Rating: I spent the entire afternoon wandering around with the people I came to Imola with, doing nothing and drinking warm beer. Everything outside the music at the racetrack was crap, like fitness tents and massages: total bullshit. The beer was sold at exorbitant prices. Initially, those losers from Negramaro were playing. I didn’t even see the Mercury Rev from afar, which I might regret a bit. By sweet-talking the girl selling the tickets, we managed to get wristbands for the “happy island” right in front of the stage. We went there, with no turning back, when Billy Idol was halfway through his concert. He was damn good; I didn’t even know him back then. The crowd was stunned; clearly, they were waiting for Slash and didn’t give a damn about Billy. The legendary Velvet Revolver made us wait forever, setting up a stage like true rockstars. Slash had put on weight; you couldn’t even see his face behind that animal-like hair hanging everywhere. He played like some overly enthusiastic guitarists who imitate him in local cover bands. It was all a mess: them, their repertoire, their clothes, and especially their god-like attitude, while they were just clowns. The only nice thing was people throwing water at each other, and the Red Cross workers passing by, which was refreshing in that infernal heat.
Now, let me clarify something. I’m not a big fan of Oasis; back then, I hadn’t even listened to the abortion album they had released a few months prior. But with them, I started to hear some serious music, that’s true.
Finally, the audience woke up, as the sun and heat subsided. “Oasis, Oasis, Oasis.” The crowd became more compact and restless. I didn't even feel like peeing. I don’t remember how they came on; I think the stage was dark. I realized because people started pushing from all sides: some wanted to escape suffocation, others were drawn by the blinding lights of the stage. Damn, it’s been two years now, I can’t remember what song the Gallagher brothers started with, surely one from “Don’t Believe The Truth.” I only heard the fans singing because they were shouting so much. Liam had a crappy voice, worse than usual, but no one could care less. Every now and then, the stage shot out crazy lights, bringing cool air over the crowd. Meanwhile, the roar of Oasis’ two scratched guitars continued. And then came “Champagne Supernova,” not a bad song. At some point, Liam stepped away from the microphone and went backstage. Shortly after, he was back. He felt obliged to at least say goodbye, he waved to everyone and left for good. The crowd didn’t immediately realize the blow they’d been dealt. The concert continued: now Noel was singing, with his clear and melodious voice, singing his songs, “Wonderwall,” before it became the song of the pope boys, or whatever the hell they’re called.
Eventually, not even an hour and Oasis, or what remained of them, ran for cover. And that’s when the audience got pissed. “Liam, Liam fuck off,” plastic bottles thrown at the poor cameramen. After all, Oasis acted like the usual Manchester bastards.
At the moment, I had fun, I was thrilled, but years later, looking back with a critical eye, I judge that edition of Heineken as crap and say I would have preferred to see R.E.M the day before, even if Green Day were there.
In recent years, the Heineken Jammin Festival has become an event for metalheads or 80s hard rock nostalgia and obviously for Vasco fans. Almost nothing new. Even though it’s a big festival, it’s certainly no longer the best in Italy, and compared to festivals like the Torino Free Festival and Ferrara Sotto Le Stelle, it sucks, especially this year, as they’re even doing it in Mestre, so just imagine that.
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