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Rating: At nine o'clock last night, at Teramo Park in Barona, in front of the beautiful stage set up by South Park, there were many of us waiting for the concert to start. Really a lot: there was me, my friend ReZ, and at least four platoons of mosquitos. Never seen such a crowd. In twenty minutes, the mosquitos push us out towards "the nearest pharmacy with a decent mosquito repellent, because here it feels like being on the set of Starship Troopers." It's called Ben's Repell, it's better than Brum forte, and most importantly, Autan has always done nothing for me (not easy product placement à la "Sex & the City," I'm just in solidarity with all the inhabitants of the Po Valley swamp).
We return greasy and smelly, if we still had long hair like in '98, Manowar would have asked for our autograph. We re-enter the open space of the park where the concert has already started and Pulp Project is already warming up the few cats present and the army of mosquitos. I had never heard them before: they reference Tarantino, sing their own stuff strictly in English, hint at a Pink Floyd cover, and then "UUuuuiiiiiip": the power goes out. I thought it only happened in movies... But they don't lose heart: drums and jokes keep the show going.
Once the power is back to the amplifiers, Pulp Project finishes their concert (great even though there were just a few of us under the stage), and I can finally tell ReZ "Oh, did you see that the mosquitos AVOID us??? (Ben's Repell, in case you missed it earlier. Yes, yes, it works like a charm, probably as toxic as Chernobyl's salad, but it works).
Meanwhile, the fans start to replace the mosquitos and slowly the clearing in South Park fills with people. So many people arrive compared to before that it only seems right to fill the stage as well, and so just before 10 PM, I finally get to see "Calibro 35" in flesh, bones, and instruments.
Drummer Rondanini, with an elderly look and teenage performances, is the center around which the horns and keyboards of Enrico, the bass of the bearded and greasy (borderline sludge) Luca Cavina, and the guitar (and pedals!!!) of Martellotta outline the profiles of: Henry Silva, Maurizio Merli, Tomas Milian, and rough company. Under the notes of crime-funk it seems that Barona Park has finally filled with people. Some hold a lit mosquito coil between their fingers, others dislocate their shoulders trying to scratch between their shoulder blades, while the most stoic ignore the problems caused by the local climate and sway leaning on the barricades, marking the rhythm with head and knees.
In front of a devout audience, in the humid air of Barona, Calibro 35 revives the spirit of that Milan that "trembles and wants justice," the "Violent" Milan, "Caliber 9" and "Scorching" that about forty years ago filled the cinemas of the peninsula. To be honest, after more than two hours of music, jokes, and balaclavas, they finish the concert quite poorly with the reinterpretation of "Profondo Rosso" which, although beautiful, leaves Morricone's "Milan Hates" out of the lineup, and, given where we were, we were all expecting it a bit.
But it's a minor damage, we go home all happy with the desire to recover Lenzi's entire filmography. Before going to bed, I reread Scerbanenco and, just moments from sleep, I am at peace with the world.
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