Giorgio Canali & Rossofuoco
Livorno 16 aprile 2016

I find myself in a nearly empty The Cage, disappointed after spilling a liter of double malt beer partly on the floor and partly into my stomach and that of the girl who accompanied me to Livorno. I think back to how many times I have witnessed Canali's performances in the past and realize I can't count them. Instinctively, I blame it on age, but then I remember I'm not that old yet and that the gentleman on stage, spitting and headbutting the microphone while defying the limits of cranial trauma, is twenty years older than me. Then I find comfort and understand that each of his concerts for me, and perhaps for many others, is always a unique, private experience, distinguishable in one's memories from the others because of the songs, the interpretations, Canali's mood, and the sometimes improbable venues where Rossofuoco ends up playing. Once I easily found a spot in the front row, it's time for the opening band Phantorama to take the stage. The three boys from Milan are a pleasure to listen to, offering an atypical indie rock that doesn't involve the use of the six-string but only a bass that sometimes thrums on the edge of industrial. The drums, a handful of keyboards, and the voice lead my musical memories toward a band like the Dresden Dolls. All pleasant sensations that pique interest in the young group and partially kill the distraction typically reserved for opening acts. A second beer fully enjoyed this time and it's Rossofuoco's turn. Canali, besides being accompanied as usual by the "octopus" Luca Martelli (formerly of Litfiba) on drums and Marco "Testadifuoco" Greco (playing bass tonight instead of guitars), trusts the Gibson of Steve Dalcol, who has been an integral part of the group for years but is not always present due to his engagements with Frigidaire Tango (an Italian new wave worth a shot) and his life halfway between Italy and Mexico. The concert begins without any preamble, as usual, and several classics like "Rossocome" and "Tutti gli uomini" or the French-speaking "La demarche des crabes" are fired immediately to warm up an admittedly not very large audience. The crowd, however, is well-disposed, including myself in the front row, and responds when almost all of the "pearls for pigs" from the very recent self-titled album are rolled out. "Tutto è così semplice," first single from the hyperunknown singer-songwriter Macromeo, has already been memorized by the neural cells of many spectators, and the few famous reinterpretations, like De Gregori's "Storie di ieri," emerge from the amplifiers and bang against our ears "channeled" to the marrow. The sonic pleasure then sublimates when, perhaps anesthetized by a bottle of Sapphire gin, Giorgio Canali delivers one of his headbutts to the microphone, steps away, and leaves the proscenium to Angela Baraldi. It unexpectedly begins an arousing version of "I wanna be your dog," with Angela (the last real woman with punk attitude to take the stage in Italy) singing and walking on all fours on the boards of The Cage. It's not Iggy, but those who made do tonight certainly enjoyed it with her... When the atmosphere is now significantly heated, I look at the people next to me, red faces, smudged makeup, concert odors, a security guard asking me if I have a poorly parked Nissan Qashqai (unfortunately no, I have a Peugeot 206 from 2004), my friend who, as per the sad script, has recorded half the concert with the smartphone, characters next to me that Dario Argento would have cast in another era, and I realize I never stopped looking at the stage. More than an hour of my life has been taken hostage. I am almost moved when the poetry is interrupted in typical Canali & Rossofuoco style by a curse from Giorgio and the drummer's broken drumstick that is miraculously launched between the breasts of the girl next to me. I pause on the scene for a moment and understand that certain things can happen not just in Hollywood if you really believe in them. It's a moment, and "Precipito" starts, and I fall with her towards the exit.