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Rating: I woke up early last Tuesday. Alarm at five. Two sandwiches, a bottle of water, backpack on my shoulders, and off I went. The short night that had just passed had been quite challenging, mentally speaking: a whirlwind of emotions and mental images relentlessly filled almost all of my nighttime thoughts. Sleeping peacefully was too difficult since, the following day, I was going to see at least five of my teenage idols. Randomly ordered, Phil Anselmo, Rex Brown, James Hetfield, Kirk Hammett, and Lars Ulrich: individuals who, despite the lesser admiration I have for some of them at present, especially the latter, are indelibly stamped in my memories, musical and otherwise.
We arrived in Bologna at ten. The frenzy to see the aforementioned individuals allowed me to endure, using hyperbole, “almost willingly” the six-hour queue under the sun, the proud stories of some stereotypical metalhead (one even filmed himself swearing in church, porka minkia!), the street vendors of water and beer, and finally, funny guys with a friendly Celtic cross tattooed on their necks. Then at four that sunny afternoon, the gates opened. I enjoyed a well-deserved rest during The Sword's performance. A typical band with an unmistakably Texan sound: riffs that are a blend of Pantera and Eyehategod, bursts of hardcore fury and decent technical mastery not adequately supported by the singer's performance, barely audible due to the too high guitar volume, whose lines were also too rough and low-pitched for the vocalist's timbre, a certain J.D. Cronise.
Another half-hour break and it's back to the chaos. The Down peek onto the stage of the Arena Parco Nord. Flawless performance. An immense Phil Anselmo, statuesque in stage presence and extraordinarily engaging, not only for his classic "goddamn" and "fucking" but also for the way he jokes with the audience, from a “you misspelled, you dicks” to a group of orthographically naive youngsters who had raised a banner with the misspelled "Metalica Rulez" to when, in saying goodbye, he takes off his shirt and shows the vast crowd his famous tattoo of the word "Unscarred": Pure swagger (with a capital T). A bass, that of Rex Brown, that's more of a rifle than a bass; it resonates almost like Pepper Keenan's guitar, and every pick stroke causes a reverberation in my chest: devastating. Perhaps the sounds, like those of The Sword, did not quite fit their style, while the setlist truly satisfied everyone, classics like “Bury Me in the Smoke” alternated with tracks from the most recent work, “Down III: Over the Under”, like “Three Suns & One Star”. After seeing two-quarters of Pantera, I could already feel satisfied, but the most delightful dish was served last.
Less than an hour's intermission, and then, off it goes, "The Ecstasy of Gold" and it’s euphoria. The fresh and energetic performance of the "four horsemen" sweeps away my doubts about their integrity at the level of live performance. James Hetfield chats with the audience like in the old days (“We can’t speak Italian. You don’t speak English but tonight we all speak the language of Metallica…”) periodically rouses the large audience (thirty thousand attendees) with his characteristic “yeah!”, he is still totally in command of the stage and his legendary white Explorer and his voice unexpectedly holds through all the songs of the show (about fifteen in total) brilliantly. Kirk Hammett performs masterfully every solo and thus avoids his proverbial slips. Lars Ulrich confirms himself as the “weakling” of global drumming with the initial roll of “Whiplash” incredibly botched, but his grimaces on the big screen (huge, the production was truly opulent) are enough for me to remember when I watched “Live Shit” amazed at fifteen. Metallica performs a very wide repertoire, weaving into the setlist great classics, the tirades of “Kill’em All”, lighter-waving ballads like “Fade to Black” and “Nothing Else Matters”, a piece from “Load” like “Bleeding Me” and unexpected songs like “Motorbreath” and “Ride The Lightning”. Every “yeah!” and every song sung by thirty thousand people, every push, and every drop of sweat will become my mental tattoos.
I returned thinking about the concert, about Metallica, one of the most universal bands (feel free to say commercial or sellouts…) of the last twenty years. At the Arena Parco Nord that day there were fifty-year-old couples, down (not the band), twelve-year-old kids accompanied by their dads, all united by a t-shirt bearing the logo of the famous band that transcended the label of “metalheads”, reaching the general hall of fame. And this, in my opinion, is a merit. The most united yet varied audience I have ever seen.
Satisfied like never before.
P.S.: Apologies for the anaphors and/or any repetitions. I didn’t mean to be rhetorical for a live account, especially one like this with such strong emotional significance for the reviewer. Enjoy reading.
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