Black Mountain
live @La salumeria della musica Milano 29/09/10

Amaro Black Mountain true taste.

One of the few unwritten rules in my way of living music (and I confirmed this applies to many others) is never listen to the band's CD in the car, while you're heading to their concert. It might be a superstitious thing or purely a spiritual matter of positive karma that doesn’t ruin the live experience. Probably, it’s a simple personal ritual that I observe merely out of habit. But damn, Mr. G insists, and I eventually give in, adhering to unwritten rule no. 2: whoever drives chooses the music to listen to in the car, always and no matter what. It remains that this will be my first listen of the latest studio work.

The Milanese traffic has just subsided, and in the pseudo-residential area of Ripamonti, with apartment buildings featuring communal gardens and 3.2 cc SUVs, getting around is disarmingly easy; parking is another matter.

Upon entering, the venue presents itself rustic and of rural charm, yet fully safety compliant. It's not yet half full, and to my surprise, I learn that before the Canadian combo, there's an English band closing with the last piece (and it's better this way) and an Australian act, much more interesting, offering instrumental electro-rock, which turns out to be surprising.

True to the name of the venue and having been fasting for too many hours, Mr. G and I squeeze into a corner of the bar and bet many chips on a mixed platter for two. (4 loquats to the platter).                                                                                        

Meanwhile, Mr. F. (engine enthusiast and lover of the most heinous crimes) and Mr. P. (a loyal fan of distorted/smoky live shows) perform the same ritual at the draft counter. Everything proceeds according to plan. To tell the truth, there’s more. I mean, I find myself tasting exquisite cold cuts while a stone's throw away, there are four lads under a nervous pounding of synths and keyboards, delighting us with a spectral, lengthy Theremin solo. I wouldn't have thought so just an hour before.                                                                                     

Before moving a meter from the stage for our group, I explore the restroom area to empty my bladder and find myself in front of the guitarist from the "Vibrazioni," or his perfect lookalike. Judging by the fact we’re in Milan and given the known taste for vintage psychedelic rock, I lean toward the first hypothesis (in either case, it shows good taste attending the McBean and company concert). I return to position, and before me appears Mr. G., with hands still greasy from the cold cuts, sipping a 3-euro glass of Chianti, smile included.

A few minutes later. The sharp elbow of the guy behind me, well planted in my back, makes me realize the venue is packed without even having to turn around to check. The five take possession of the small stage, and here we go. A pleasant piece begins, which Mr. G. identifies as "Wilderness," properly warming the audience, followed by the amusing "Evil Ways" from "In The Future." I’ll now preface that the setlist will contain a large number of songs borrowed from the latest Wilderness Heart, for whose titles I rely exclusively on my ears.

In random order, I recognize: "Old Fangs" with Hammond and Wurlitzer front and center, and the Sabbath-inspired "Rollercoaster," even more effective live, and "Let Spirit Ride" with impressive drive even if its originality hits a historical low. It’s practically the riff from "Symptom Of The Universe" with a tiny variation.

The Black Mountain live is quite the experience when in the harder pieces McBean lets his SG spew harmonics, and I can say they fully convinced me. Equally, I was positively surprised when they downshift into the acoustic moments. Here the focus shifts to the intertwining of the two voices, giving that mysterious aura that listening to their albums has always left. Special mention for Amber Webber’s voice, really good and quite a beauty (unsurprisingly, many eyes are on her), although a bit colder on stage compared to her companions.

Subjectively, I cite as the concert's peak, the splendid "Wucan", the epic guitar finale (emphasized by the roar of all present) of "Tyrants," and my favorite, the psychedelic "Don't Run…": an absolute gem of a song. The '70s attitude is confirmed during a technical glitch to McBean's long chain of vintage guitar effects, which practically silences it for a couple of minutes, replaced by improvised space keyboards awaiting normalcy’s return. Little things that make concerts unique, often mere reproductions of studio albums.

For the encore, there’s room for a piece that seems like an excerpt from Led Zeppelin 3, probably "Hair Song", then comes "Queens" before the final elongated jam by time. Perhaps because of the tremendous heat and lack of oxygen, but the lengthy electric trip "Druganaut" almost takes me down. The sympathy prize of the evening to the drummer Joshua Wells, dressed like an 80's marathon runner, which means acrylic tank top and tight mini shorts!

We're all a bit sweaty, but nothing compared to the bassist, who turns his back and reveals to my eyes the geographical map of Africa printed on his shirt. That's rock, man!

An hour and a half beautifully filled, equally dominated by '70s-inspired HR, psychedelic folk ballads, and even a hint of prog produced by the keyboard background. "In The Future" as a model.

It's time to retrieve the car, wedged in a dead-end street lit by the yellow light of an old-school streetlamp (which surely witnessed the post-World Cup '82 celebrations), and the job is complete. I look into the eyes of Mr. G., Mr. F., and Mr. P. and think of Hannibal Smith from the well-executed plans.

Now awaits the dirty work.

There are miles to cover and checkpoints to bypass. Unwritten rule no. 3.

Let Spirit Ride...

The opinion of the commendatore Bossolazzi:

Psychedelia, psychedelia... The more you seek it, the more it takes you away. 4 loquats.