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Rating: I start by apologizing to Mr. Giorgio Moroder, he deserves so, so much more. To summarize the evening in one line and convey the magnitude of the figure: yesterday there were three and a half generations of people dancing, all together, all sweaty, side by side. In MILAN! And the oscar goes to... Giorgio Moroder (what a surprise).
Moroder. Does that mean anything to you? To me, it says "ToppeGanne," "ScarreFeis," "Fleschdèns," the last Daft Punk album, and then, honestly: that's it.
Instead, you, who are wise, cultured, mature, and above all, well-prepared young people, when you hear "Moroder," Donna Summer and all the rest immediately come to mind, proving that you've understood everything there is to understand, know, do, kiss, letter and testament. BRAVO, you save me a lot of trouble.
The other day Giorgio (Moroder, the DJ... damn, didn't you know everything?) was brought to Milan by the people from Wierd's editorial team.
They brought him nicely packed and perfumed onto a stage placed in the middle of the public gardens of Palestro, unpacked him and had him play a lot of his stuff and others'.
I don't like 80s disco-music, but Rez told me I couldn't miss it. And Moroder is 74: the grandpa making three-quarters of Milan dance, which for the occasion was all gathered in the public gardens. A ton of people, and to find as many in my memory I have to go back to when the twin towers were still standing back in that June 2001 with its 100,000 in Piazza Duomo for Manu Chao (yes, I also saw Manu Chao, but as I told you two years ago: I also saw Sleep live, and you lose). I was saying: he's 74, and I find that quite intriguing. Lots of curiosity, free concert, Rez brings three Texan friends. Oh, I'm going.
Initially, the idea doesn't seem to be the best. The phone doesn't have a signal. For anyone. A delirium of people trying to find each other amidst three delusions of people who will never meet. A screenwriter could make forty different movies out of such a situation, they'd all suck as much as "Sliding Doors" but he'd definitely be set for life.
I don't know how I, Rez, and the three girls of Saxon language found each other; the ultimate screenwriter is apparently particularly benevolent with me today. The fact is that we find each other and position ourselves about 40 meters from the stage. We are quite far, from here Moroder looks like Mondonico (he's a former coach, one of those that has always amused me) but to get closer, a machete would be needed. And anyway, behind us, there would be another twenty or thirty rows of people, well we aren't positioned great, but we could be much worse. Yes, in short: we are Italy but we could be Greece.
From behind they push, from the front they push, from the right they push, from the left they pull, we give up and stay here. Like sardines in a dented can. I spend three-quarters of the concert inadvertently touching the butt of one of the three Texans. For the first forty minutes, every time she turns to look at me, I feel a bit embarrassed. Then, being sharp on certain things, don't say otherwise; then I realize that more than looking at me with every accidental touch, she's smiling at me. As if to say: fool, she's not looking at you, she hopes you're trying to make a move. By the end of the evening, she'll stop hoping I'll try, she'll start trying, and as it's just and natural, she'll succeed without half a complication. Certain things, you have to earn them, I, on the other hand, am free, try it yourself and you're sure to succeed.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves, the sweet and gentle Texan will grant me her lips (upper... Come on, you guys are really vulgar when you do that) away from this mess, here it seems that to smooch you must belong to the same sex. I've been to a gay pride (I believe, maybe not, it was something else but whatever, the concept was the same) and there wasn't nearly as much free love thrown in my face. That christ, I'd also like to see, I should be watching the concert not minding other people's business. But do I mind my own business? eh? Here, let's watch the stage. god we're far away. Did I already tell you that Moroder from here looks exactly like Mondonico? Did I already tell you that Mondonico is a person I instinctively like? Have I already told you? seriously? damn, sorry...
I swear I would love to tell you about a concert I couldn't follow due to overcrowding, but I'm having difficulties. I stop here, closed and broken in half, this isn't a review, it's not a prompt it's not a vent it's nothing. It's a simple reflection: you go to listen to a 74-year-old who DJs and come home knowing that in Texas they have other tasty things besides Lansdale. I swear to god I would never have said it (and this is not a joke).
If you are wondering: why did you write this? The answer is: I don't know.
If you are wondering: What the hell is Wierd? the answer is: a magazine. What does it deal with? And how the hell should I know, probably chicks and electronics, an article to keep you in shape, and half the magazine is ads... they all seem the same to me, so much so that every time I see one, I wonder: what's the point of being a man and buying different magazines than playboy?
Yes yes, Moroder would deserve more, I apologize again.
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