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Rating:
A Dente concert is still a Dente concert.
The crowd gathered in front of the stage is not hard to imagine. Bangs, nerd glasses and artsy manners. In front of me, there's a guy who looks like the messed-up spastic son of Morrisey. The venue is small and in no time I start sweating like a dog, but I've certainly experienced far worse in this respect.
The concert starts after a long wait. The audience is truly cold and so is the singer-songwriter, who really displays the charisma of a constipated opossum. Everything flows languidly, without great peaks and often falling into the banal. The predominant feeling is having witnessed something that has no flavor and nothing to say. Music that's too plastic with moments of pure singer-songwriter mannerism typical of Italian music. God bless the aforementioned disowned son of Morrisey, whose barely hinted dance moves and looks of deep emotion brightened my evening.
The little voice in my head repeating "I told you so" and the twelve-euro entrance fee still haunt me.
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