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Rating: Dear friends,
let me tell you what happened on Saturday, October 29th, at the Cantieri di Alte Ceccato (Vicenza) for the Breathless concert (only Italian date). Together with a friend, we arrive at 9:30 PM, the scheduled start time (which, of course, always needs to be taken with a lot of flexibility). At the entrance, a young lady, very kindly, tells us that the evening has an entry fee, but our friend with the tickets hasn't arrived yet. Not wanting to make us wait outside (rightfully so), she lets us in. "Alright, we'll pay on the way out," we say, somewhat jokingly but with the best intentions. We would have paid immediately if asked. We wait inside. The place is comfortable, clean, the people are nice, friendly, and smiling. It's a shame about the background noise: a CD of new age jungle sounds ruins the environment and the atmosphere. A Sting song, which no one knows why it's there, interrupts the monotony.
Meanwhile, the place fills up, and between 10 and 11 PM, about a hundred people arrive in total. We wait for the concert to start with a bit of impatience, time passes, but at some point, a guy gets on stage and says: "I have to ask you for a favor: the guy with the tickets has arrived, you all have to leave, line up, and come back in. Five minutes of patience then we start." People look around, laugh, thinking it's a joke given the ridiculous request: the venue is full, people are drinking at the bar, more than an hour has passed since the scheduled concert time. Then reluctantly but with infinite patience, the audience makes their way to the exit. It’s a great, very great luck for the organizers, even if they probably ignore it, along with many other things, that the average age of the audience is well over 30, even over 40 (Breathless is a longtime band), and that they're very well-mannered and patient people, too much so. In fact, they quietly accommodate at the exit and line up, muttering softly but good-naturedly. After 20 minutes, nothing happens, the first in line are still waiting for who knows what. A guy comes and says: "Members to the left, others to the right." In reality, it's the opposite, as you figure out shortly, and they rearrange accordingly without protesting, like a silent and infinitely patient flock. The guy from before returns: "Exact change, no change available." He repeats it twice, like that, without please or thanks, like a soldier. And indeed it feels like being at a draft board visit. No one has said how much the ticket costs, nor how much the membership card costs (and later you'll find out why), but you need exact change, otherwise, forget it. Exact, yes, but how much? It's not written anywhere. Oh well. Time passes, and the line begins to move; my friend and I are on the left, the line that needs to make a membership card; I observe what's happening on the right line: the entering members are told "14 euros if you have exact change, otherwise 15." Classic Italian system. Always works. My turn comes in the non-member line: "How does it work?" I ask. "Do you have a membership?" "No," I reply. "Then 15 euros." I actually had the exact 14 euros if needed, but they didn't ask. Nor did they make me a membership card. So what was the difference between one line and the other?
Finally inside (again). The same new age jungle sounds CD has played at least 3 times by now. Occasionally the Sting song (always the same one). Then jungle again. Is this the DJ pre-set that the poster mentioned? The venue is full, people are now in a bad mood for being treated like cattle and for having paid the price of grotesque, fantozzian organization. Finally, the opening band, Christian Rainer and his entourage, takes the stage. The austere Austrian artist sings a song accompanied only by guitar and his cavernous voice. He finishes. No one applauds. The bad mood is still in the air, heavily weighing on the atmosphere, now affecting those on stage.
Rainer mutters something in English, starts the second piece, performs and sings with honest, sober elegance, splendidly accompanied by a capable cellist and bassist, this time someone applauds. By the third, fourth piece, the applause of the entire audience salutes the end of each song. Then, without anyone understanding how, Rainer finds a note in his hands. He looks rather stunned, tries to read it but doesn’t understand. Is it the title of the next song? He calls for help Francesca, the bassist, who understands and takes it. "The owner of the blue Volvo is asked to move it immediately because it's blocking the passage. I'm sorry, there’s no license plate written on the note, do your best." She says it sweetly, although it's clear she's annoyed. Bitter laughs among the whole audience. After queuing twice and being treated like animals, finally, the concert begins but the Austrian artist is interrupted while he's on stage playing to read (him, lest any of the organizers bothered to do it personally) a ridiculous note. Bravo. At this point, everyone present knows, senses the unsettling truth: at these levels, anything can happen, you can no longer be sure of anything. And indeed, it’s only the beginning.
Rainer finishes his performance, greeted by applause, it's past 11 PM, maybe midnight, the audience is eager to see their favorites, Breathless, on their only Italian date. After all, they’ve been waiting for three hours. The instruments are arranged on stage, adjusted as they should be, but time passes, and nothing happens. Actually, yes, the usual idiot who left just after Rainer has restarted the CD with jungle sounds, from the first piece, that now everyone knows by heart, to the last, then the Sting song, always the same, then back to the CD. The torture continues, just to exacerbate spirits already tried by the way of the cross of this evening.
We have to wait past midnight and a half, maybe one, and finally, Breathless starts. The problems are immediately apparent: Dominic Appleton, elegantly, before starting, invites the sleepy operator to operate the DVD player as planned, and then the images start flowing behind them.
Breathless starts playing, and Appleton starts singing: only that the microphones work poorly, don’t amplify, and the impression is that the singer is shouting inside a pot or a tin can; his keyboard whistles and vibrates, and he is forced to punch it several times during the evening to make it stop; but even when it works, it sends ridiculous sounds, it seems like the bontempi organ they gave to kids twenty years ago, the one where you had to blow to get faint notes out like a Christmas bagpipe.
Among whistles from the system, microphones that don't amplify forcing the singer to strain his voice to the point of paroxysm, the vibrating, buzzing kids keyboard sending pathetic sounds, the only thing missing is for the guitar to fail. And indeed, it fails. Break, various adjustments to get it back working, and the patient audience, who has now seen and endured everything, once again waits silently for better moments.
Somehow, the guitar starts working again, a few pieces are left, an encore of a couple of songs, and finally, Breathless leaves the stage. Thunderous applause, enthusiastic audience, obviously not for the performance, given that all conditions were adverse, but for the goodwill of the group that played and gave their best nonetheless. The audience understands, thanks them, and applauds. They also applaud a bit for themselves, for the patience shown. The jungle sounds CD resumes the new age drone, I already know what comes next, the Sting song (always the same one), and I don't want to see what will happen next, so along with other victims, we hurry to the exit.
Conclusions: this was Breathless's only Italian date, and surely their last concert at Cantieri, unless the London artists are also masochists. Since I am not a masochist either, I doubt I will set foot in that place again, also because they didn't make me a card and I don't want to hear the jungle CD again. I'm starting to hate Sting too.
In a word, which I direct to the Cantieri organizers (formerly Interno 20, formerly Ottomat, or whatever you like): SHAME ON YOU. Scammers, musical ignorants, and inept.
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