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Rating: In the photo you see on the right, your devoted Bartolomeo Boom and Mike Williams are portrayed.
Mike Williams is the singer of EyeHateGod.
... (pause moment)
If this moment of pause was not enough for you to understand the importance of all this, it's probably because you are not aspiring slagger.
So I guess some explanation is necessary.
Let's put it this way: now that I have a photo depicting me with Mike Williams, I can also start listening to '80s electro pop, ask for musical advice from Enea, join the Facebook group "Dodi torna nei Pooh" and still continue to show off with all the medallions in the arcade of my hometown.
I don't know... it's like being the co-star of a porn video that circulates freely on the internet along with Keeley Hazeel: it might also turn out that you are subscribed to all magazines directed by Alfonso Signorini and still no one will doubt your heterosexuality.
Because Mike Williams is not just slagg. Mike Williams is THE slagg.
For some strange reason, I imagined him tall, magnetic, fascinating. A cursed poet, the singer of an intimate and desperate malaise of life.
I found myself facing a short, chubby guy, afflicted by chronic giggling, not very fragrant, with a cadaveric pallor and a look that resembles the post mortem of a tuna fillet. Too slagg.
The events that preceded the extortion of this photo were more or less the following.
Physically and financially prostrated by an infamous and shameful job, I arrive near the Magnolia very, very early: just in time to feel faint when I am asked FIVE EUROS for parking.
I make a timid protest, immediately silenced in blood by the parking attendant who, with just one look, tells me: "Handsome friend, with this shitty job I earn 10 times what you earn with your degree and your smooth talk. Plus, at night I sleep peacefully like Easter or whatever commanded holiday we have in Sri Lanka. Take comfort: paying 5 euros for parking is really very slagg".
Outside the Magnolia, meanwhile, a formless mass of thug-like faces has gathered as I haven't seen since the disco on Sunday afternoon: girls burping with torn tights, far-right gym-goers with very short hair, far-left rebels with very long beards, seasoned blasphemers, rastas with dreadlocks… basically, I am the only one whose calves aren’t as big as two melons.
Inside the venue, Mike Williams and Jimmy Bower are nice and fresh at the t-shirt stall and are making a fortune.
Bower looks like a matryoshka because he is so short, round, and neckless: a kind of cross between Gimli from "The Lord of the Rings" and Rasputin.
Of Williams, I've already said.
Both turn out to be ruthless merchants.
If you want to shake their hand, you have to buy a T-shirt. A Long Sleeve if you also want the autograph.
As soon as I understand the deal, I start pestering Mike Williams worse than a vacuum cleaner salesman.
Bartleboom: "Mike, there's nothing more beautiful, there's nothing more beautiful than you. Can I take a photo with you?"
MW: "Naaaaaa, buy a t-shirt first!"
BB: "Mike, and there you are, now you, to give meaning to my days... Please, just one photo!"
MW: "Dear, I bet there's someone behind you who wants to buy a t-shirt... Step aside, madafakka!"
BB: "Will beeee! Will beee! The auroraaaa... Mike, don't be so stuck-up. Besides, these t-shirts are not even nice to look at..."
MW: "Long sleeve, it's OK?!"
BB: "We're today's kids, Mike... the long sleeve costs 35 euros and I had to cash in on the postal savings of my granddad to pay for parking."
MW: "Uhhh... don't get me started on the parking! Did you see that stuff?! ‘mmazza che ladri! Come on, let’s take a photo to shake off the blues."
And here we are.
The concert was just as I imagined it: intense and goofy.
That of the EHG, more than a wall, is a convention of Bergamo bricklayers of sound.
Stuff that you feel the vibrations rising from the floor and make your soles tremble.
Bower makes the funniest faces while playing and really seems to be enjoying himself a lot.
Williams moves on stage struggling to stand on his legs, swaying, clutching the microphone stand as if he’s constantly about to collapse on the floor.
He seems to recover imperceptibly only when he sings: "Buuaaraaggghghghg aghagh arraghg ghrgaghg aaaaaaaggggggrrrrrrrrrr!!!!"
After more or less every song he thanks:
1) his mom;
2) the audience;
3) New Orleans - Louisiana;
4) something/someone else ("Thank you very much sbrighidibl") that neither I nor those around me understand. So, in uncertainty, we decide to launch beastly screams towards the stage making the devil horns gesture. He seems to appreciate it and nods benevolently.
Segrate - New Orleans: one race, one face.
Everything, however, takes a back seat compared to my photo with Mike Williams.
I don’t quite know how to say it… it’s as if twenty years of medal career have finally found their fulfillment. Higher than this, I would say there is only:
- a camping trip with Burzum;
- teaching Kerry King to read and write;
- mooching a piece of focaccia with olives from Gene Hoglan;
- shaving off Geezer Butler's mustache;
One day I will show this photo to my son and tell him: "My son, I know that now you consider me an old fogey. But know that once upon a time, a thousand years ago, your father took a photo with Mike Williams".
"Good job, old man! Who the hell is Mike Williams?!"
"Right now I don’t even remember myself, but when I start whipping you with the belt using the buckle side, I’m sure something will come to mind"
And now a bit of thanks.
Thank you to my parents for not buying me a scooter when I was 15, forcing me to come of age riding a Ciao Piaggio, year 1989, acquired at a bankruptcy auction.
Thanks to all the girls who broke my heart in the last 15 years (impossible to list them all…), thanks to my high school math teacher, for every public humiliation disguised as an oral exam. And again: thank you to the traffic wardens and traffic aides of the provinces of Varese and Milan, thank you to the career moms who take their offspring to kindergarten in the morning leaving the SUV in the middle of the street because they don’t know how to park it, thanks to my grandmother and her thrilling little habit of washing the bowls while I’m showering, thanks to my internet provider and its numerous, recurring non-compliances.
Thank you.
Because without you, I would never have become so slagg.
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