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The Interzona rises in Verona-South, a neighborhood ambitiously named Borgo-Roma because by drawing an imaginary straight line along via Scuderlando, one could, with a certain generosity towards oneself, feel as if taking off towards the South and the Capital, without considering the two hundred kilometers of scattered small towns – from Buttapietra to Nogara to Poggio Rusco and its smokestacks – the Apennines, etc.
The spaces occupied by the cultural association are those of the city's former general markets, whose remnants still tower in the neighborhood, especially in the form of the enormous circular dome and the old cold storage rooms, which have survived both the bombings and abandonment, as well as recent attempts at environmental redevelopment, which would mean tearing everything down and rebuilding, forgetting what was there before.
The internal environment is warm, with a small crowd, no more than sixty people, mostly over thirty. A red and black flag to the left of the stage, posters of old guests of the center covering the walls and the ceiling, an atmosphere of a disused factory that makes some close their eyes and think of Berlin, in the early '80s or a few years ago.
Bob Mould is preceded by a young singer, who, a bit intimidated, a bit confident in that modesty that helps not to make enemies of the audience, seems almost to apologize for the task he has, dreaming of being like Mould and tonight appears to imitate Dylan or Neil Young.
He manages well, the spirit is that of the combat folker like Billy Bragg, if not Massimo Bubbola at his best or Vasco Brondi at his worst, more than the cited models, and even if he doesn't manage to sing us a cover of "Ice Cold Ice," he still gets applause; perhaps he also dreams of different stages, just as via Scuderlando aspires to take us to Rome and architects to demolish the old markets, but tonight it can go well like this.
The set is acoustic. At a certain point, a man appears with a windbreaker, wool cap, beard, and glasses, starts arranging the microphone and instrument, and then leaves. I recognize him, I say it, but I'm not believed.
A few minutes before, the man returns, in a T-shirt, sports-cut pants, and sneakers, introduces himself, and thanks us for sharing this experience with him.
Then he starts playing and singing nonstop for over an hour, a first set of songs with the acoustic guitar, a second with a Fender electric guitar. Him alone, without a band or supporting musicians, illuminated by a spotlight that casts his serene profile against the dark background of the room.
He rightly says it's an experience, something that can't be recounted or reduced to mere reporting: new songs and tracks from twenty-five years ago are blended with a rare instrumental intensity, layered chords and reverbs that form a sound carpet for a voice still inspired, full of pathos, a bridge between a past of melodic hardcore and a present as a rock singer-songwriter.
The greatest emotions – but almost everyone present is looking for that precise nostalgia effect – are for the pieces of the '80s, from "Hardly Getting Over It" in the acoustic version, through "I Apologize" and the acclaimed "Something I Learn Today," rendered with the straightforwardness and expressive synthesis of the past.
Bob, indeed, has not aged at all. Less than his nostalgic admirers, less than I probably would have aged in his place, less than the images of certain myths who died young. There isn't in him any attitude of a veteran, no complacency, only the spirit of a time that continues and is always current, and always vital, because –
you understand it by seeing him in person – authentic.
He exits and returns for the encore, squeezing the microphone to show us how much he shouted into it.
And when he starts with "Make No Difference At All," which is the song that brought me here, I realize it truly makes no difference: you close your eyes, and to these notes, you could be in Minneapolis or Berlin, in Rome or Verona, or in your room, in '85 or '92, in 2009 or 2001; you feel the breath of those who worked at the general markets and perhaps, leaving the cells, looked south towards via Scuderlando as an escape towards infinite plains, ignoring the mountains that, far in the back, close the landscape; you see the architect bent over drawing a possible future, the neighborhood inhabitants passing by chilled, the neo-Gothic Church across the street empty and off, like only a Church can be empty and off on a Saturday night, the pizzeria across where to end the evening, and then the car, new roads, new lights, different neighborhoods, the bus depot behind the station, tree-lined boulevards.
Looking around, you think everything is circular like the dome of the markets, and that everything goes, stops, returns, the same and always different, like a chord and a reverb without end.
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