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Rating: Montebeuna: two churches, a hospital, and lots of warehouses. Cool, rainy evening, amidst a dark countryside, passing through towns with rustic names: Caerano, Vallà, Resana, Maser. The Osteria da Tocchetto is behind the bus station, which is behind the train station. No address, no phone number (pay your bills, Tocchetto, come on!), let alone an email. Scheduled start at 7 PM (?). We arrive at nine. The Treviso indie crowd is already gathered to hear the third European date of the Crippled Black Phoenix: Mogwai's bassist, Electric Wizard's drummer, produced by Geoff Barrow's Invada, Portishead. Between Geneva, Rome, Berlin, and London: Montebeuna. An announcement like this: endtime ballads. Perfect. If there's wine, salami sandwiches, and beer (a liter for 5 euros, great Tocchetto: screw the bills), even better. The Treviso indie crowd eats, drinks, and curses.
The Crippled Black Phoenix haven't arrived yet. They'll play outside the osteria, in a shed where Montebeuna's old folks used to play bocce a few years ago. The writings and drawings of the lanes are still there. You can still hear the echo of the village old man throwing: "Longa!...". At the back, the stage. Behind, two tarps muddy, covering the skeleton of the shed. In the center, an old dusty Panda car. We're told it's the old owner's of Tocchetto, who might be dead, might not care about the Panda anymore. There it is, period. Some people draw on the dust, some write curses. Great democracy. At nine-thirty a van arrives: it's them. They come directly from Geneva, they'll tell us the van had issues, they left three hours late, crossed Milan's traffic jam, and met big thunderstorms. And the Treviso indie crowd keeps drinking wine and cursing. Great nonetheless, even if they'll play less. While the Crippled Black Phoenix do a rough soundcheck, we observe them. There are eight of them: the beardless singer, Erik the Barbarian on one guitar, the grunge leader on the other, Dominic Aitchison on bass, a Greek dentist on keyboards, Boris (the chef from "Fracchia against Dracula") on keyboards and synth, a hippie on drums, a wide woman on cello. Altogether, they really smell a lot.
They start with "The Lament Of The Nithered Mercenary", i.e., a whiny loop by Boris (dreadful); followed by "Rise Up And Fight", raw and drunken: in no time, the lame phoenixes have set up a respectable sound. There are passages that sound like grunge, others that smell of britrock, some Coldplay-like piano phrasings. "Really, How'd It Get This Way?" is a fine piece, rendered more powerful and massive live, even though cello, piano, acoustic guitar, and accordion remain the base of a fabric that feels Nordic, Ossianic, and nostalgic. Another highlight is "Goodnight, Europe", where Erik the Barbarian's slightly tacky solo precedes a basic yet sharp final riff. It's always two chords following one another with hypnotic rhythm, like mill wheels, and on top, Crippled Black Phoenix build and weave. Music that greatly exalts those who play, from prolonged ecstasy, when the band is tight. Crippled Black Phoenix are, and the Treviso indie crowd appreciates. Between two songs, there's a cry of "froci!" They respond: "Grazi milli." Intense again with "Suppose I Told The Truth" and "When You're Gone". A grand finale with "Sharks And Storms" dragged like a dead weight, with an elegiac interlude highlighting that Crippled Black Phoenix have plenty of melody. For this reason, it's hard to find models: more Pink Floyd than Mogwai. Only side note: the beardless singer's voice is too low, almost inaudible at times. Crippled Black Phoenix's ballads are cloudy, like cliffs over a malt-colored sea, with the wind slapping you to get you moving. The music would be enough. But if the text is there, it should at least be heard.
In the end, the eight are happy, as are the Treviso indie crowd, the police who leave, and the neighbors. Autographs, merchandise. The cellist spills wine on her seventh size. A guy from Treviso points it out to her: "Wine into your nipple. It is a good lucky (?) sign." Well then. Approaching Erik the Barbarian (from Los Angeles) takes courage: he really smells, he's scary, looks like a Viking. A guy approaches him: "Saraeo iu queo dei moguei?..." "No," I say to him, "it's the bald guy over there." The guy leaves Erik, who stands by the Panda, alone and austere. Another guy tries to talk to Dominic but struggles with English. He turns to a girl next to him: "How do you say 'bocce' in English?" Boris is talking to a local who's apologizing because "so mexo drunk." Boris laughs and keeps scratching his head. My record is autographed with a drawing of a little man scratching his head, with an arrow and the signature Matt (even though he's actually called Team Brick, meaning Squad Mattone. Matt = Brick?). I fear, in any case, that Squad has some lice problems. But try and tell him: how do you say 'lice' in English?
The provincial road in front of Tocchetto is already empty. Only a few night wanderers pass by, wondering what the heck this noise is in Montebeuna... The Crippled Black Phoenix get back on the van: tomorrow Rome, then Berlin and London. They'll go far, we say to each other, in every sense. We cross Caerano, San Giorgio delle Pertiche, and Campodarsego again. Less distance, rain and fields, but that's fine: the endtime ballads fit here too, and maybe even more.
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