•
Rating: I write to not forget. Because I had forgotten a few things: the vices and virtues of the always dear metal fauna, the beauty of the faces of the metalheads, their velvety skin, their exquisite elegance, their ingenious stratagems (for example, the guy who keeps a can of beer in his jacket and occasionally goes to the bathroom to fill his glass to thus outsmart the expensive bar drinks). I had also forgotten the bad, very bad habit, typical of metal happenings, of playing metal music even during the setup of the stages (couldn't they play Chopin instead?). Tonight, moreover, nu-metal is hitting hard, and having crossed the fence with the always welcome "War for Territory" of Sepulturian memory, we delve into territories where silence is beautiful. The fact is that I arrive at the crux already worn out, so much so that with great relief I welcome, just past midnight, the choruses and symphonies of the inevitable satanic introduction that opens the set by Death SS, guests tonight at the Music Park Life in Bientina, a dingy industrial warehouse lost in the Pisan countryside, but equipped with a more than respectable stage.
It had been since the tour supporting "Panic" that I hadn't attended a concert of Sylvester and his associates, and more than one concern pricked me on the eve: among other things, would Silvestri’s voice hold up, having aged by another ten years in the meantime? To reassure me: a work like "Resurrection," the album with which Our Heroes returned to the spotlight last year, a great album indeed. As for the stage design, everything seems more professional than in the past, as if wanting to celebrate the return of Death SS in grand style: a more than generous sized stage, three cross-shaped microphones in the front row, tall columns of flaming fire between one huge cross and another, an obligatory candelabrum to complement Freddy Delirio’s keyboards, and a triple panel in the background to confirm the multimedia nature of our champions’ horror metal shows.
Energetic sprinklings of talcum powder and a magnificent swirl of green/red/blue lights on an enigmatic background are the appetizer, while "Ave Satani" (directly from "The Omen" soundtrack - also covered by Fantomas in "Director's Cut") echoes imposingly, increasingly overwhelmed by the usual DDETT! ESS-SSESS!! DDETT! ESS-SSESS!! shouted impatiently by the audience as the masked musicians take their positions on stage. Thus begin the proverbial first notes of "Peace of Mind," but someone is still missing among us. Where is that prankster Steve Sylvester? Here he is, bursting out from the coffin placed at the center (a coffin I hadn't noticed until just a moment before), here he is, grabbing the microphone/cross and immediately the music of Death SS is permeated with that evil aura that only the peculiar voice of its leader can confer. Moreover, I must say, Silvestri is in shape: an undeniable stage presence and a performance that will be convincing throughout the show (except for a understandable decline detectable at the end). His companions are not inferior, particularly Al De Noble seems to have the authority of a good family man, instills security and in my eyes ends up embodying the essence of the Old School: from his very first moves (which denote power, precision, and serene self-confidence) it is clear that for him and his guitar, retracing what has been written by the many admirable six-string predecessors who over the years have been part of the band will be a breeze. No sooner are the thanks given than the unmistakable main riff of "Horrible Eyes" bursts in, attacking the Music Park Life crowd with its irresistible Sabbathian cadence (the spirit of Paul Chain hovers over us), just as happened in the legendary "The Cursed Concert".
The setlist is predictable but simply perfect, the band dips here and there in its vast repertoire in a balanced manner, spanning over sixteen tracks and a career of more than thirty years, with a particular focus on the masterpiece "Heavy Demons," leaving aside only (and without particular regrets) the tracks from "Humanomalies" (whose electronic overstructures would not have fit well with the sound of the Resurrection) and the drab "The Seventh Seal," the final dismal regurgitation before the temporary suspension of activities. Thus follow old and new tracks, from the powerful voodoo ritual of "Baron Samedi" (monolithic is the performance behind the drums by the newly hired Bozo Wolff) to the charming gothic-dark flow of the beautiful "Scarlet Woman" (on the shields is the revived Freddy Delirio), from the classic "Terror" and "Cursed Mama" to the devastating "Baphomet," which live is always one of my favorites. Only three tracks are taken from the latest album, notably the bombastic "The Darkest Night" accompanied by its video clip promptly played in the background. Indeed, throughout the concert, sequences of old horror films, band video clips, and old live performances will be projected on the large central screen, among smokes, light games, and sometimes even fireworks, often in thematic or simply aesthetic harmony with what is happening on stage.
Finally arrives the moment I awaited more than others, that of "Let the Sabbath Begin" (SABA! SABA!), a track to which I remain very attached and which will remain, in my opinion, the highlight of the evening. Assisted by the fourth gin and tonic, I found myself shouting the irresistible chorus at the top of my lungs (SABA! SABA!), which in the closing portion, amongst the audience's choruses (SABA! SABA!), the raised arms of the people, and the screechy cries of Sylvester, the great protagonist (let the sabbath begiiiiiiiiiin), becomes something overwhelming. All the tracks drawn from "Panic" (three in total - "Let the Sabbath Begin," "Hi-Tech Jesus," and the title track) gain important positions in the setlist, being replayed in the final portion of the concert, and now rise to the ranks of true classics.
But speaking of classics, it is with the inevitable "Vampire" that the first part of the set is completed: to "Panic" and the anthemic "Heavy Demons" the honor to close a great show, where the five showed themselves to be true professionals and the execution overall satisfactory and free of major flaws (although the acoustics offered by the venue were not optimal and especially in the finale, the band lost some points in terms of precision). Particularly, good old Freddy Delirio made sure to support Steve Sylvester, dividing himself between keyboards and microphone, supporting the vocalist especially in the pre-chorus and chorus of the concluding tracks. Needless to say, half of the show is made by the charisma of the leader himself and the scenic ideas he has devised: Sylvester waving the flaming cross over the audience, Sylvester drinking the blood of Christ and splashing a glassful onto the front rows, Sylvester fighting the nun (and losing), are all beautiful images, full of a sublime and clownish iconoclasm, reminding us how beautiful it is to be satanic and metalheads.
Cherry on the cake: a performer better than usual (such as Martyna Smith) appearing several times on stage to show us her charms (although ignored, or subtly disgusted, by Silvestri himself, somewhat cold and stiff when the cougar circled around him). Between wiggles worthy of a sleazy peep-show and kitsch ideas to the maximum (the damsel, for example, dressed as a sexy she-devil complete with horns, thong, and rubber trident), there is also space for a moment of true and healthy and sacred blasphemy (oooo, finally!), that is when she, as mom made her, rubs the cross on her privates. Though, honestly speaking, the only gesture that perhaps truly shocked me was when Glenn Strange at the end threw the bass into the crowd (but wasn't it used to throw the pick once???). Indeed, the instrument's prompt catch by a fan in the front row (considering that metalheads are not typically distinguished by quick reflexes) maliciously suggests that the brave fan is at least the bassist's cousin and the two had previously arranged this.
In short: good taste does not reside here, you could certainly say that, due to the frolicking damsel and the disproportionate amount of women necked or assaulted in the projected images, misogyny was almost touched or certainly the most boorish sexism was ridden, that all in all assumed the contours of a true circus, but one cannot deny the professionalism with which the show was set up. Because beyond everything, beyond the swirling breasts and inverted crosses and raspberry juice thrown on the audience, it is the rock soul, essentially glam, adorned but genuine and exquisitely retro of Death SS that prevails: that satanism of Carduccian memory that sounds more like a hymn to freedom and transgression than an esoteric rite in the strict sense. But despite their historical significance and undeniable value, presumably, Death SS will continue to be snubbed by many, perhaps also because of that uniquely Italian idiocy according to which they should bring bad luck (but damn it to you good-thinking bigots with the cursed nail!).
As for me, I came back home safe and sound. And the next day, while peeing and lulling myself in the still vivid images of the night before, I found myself cheerfully humming SABA! SABA! Let the SABA...
Loading comments slowly
