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Rating: Greg is Greg, there's nothing you can do about it. The concert ended a while ago, the artists are heading to their well-deserved rest, they swarm from the tent side stage where they may have sipped something alcoholic. It's late at night, a breeze reminds me of the abundant sweat that soaked my shirt. I see him, among the others, his imposing presence, and as I clutch my copy of “Gentlemen” and a pen like a sword and shield, I start to yell like a fifteen-year-old, improvising a Totò-like English: “Cam hiar, uan autograaf”
. He approaches, the smile plastered on his big face, endures my fawning about how great and cool he is, writes on the cover (a horrible scrawl, no one will ever believe it's a signature, not even I believe it, for that matter), he approaches my girlfriend and what does he pull out of the hat? A hand kiss. Simple, romantic, unexpected, and slightly crazy, given the context. Greg is Greg, damn.
Rewind. Early evening. Car in the Roman traffic at eight on a Sunday evening. I think I'm late. The informant at hand mentioned 9 PM as the starting time. Naturally, he lied: when I arrive, I find the stage in front of me and a few fierce fans on picket duty. We gain an advanced side spot and I prepare for the wait. Dot dot dot.
It's eleven when (with an academic hour delay) they decide to open the dance. Cesare Zappalà, all mustaches and open arms, announces “his brothers.” Here they are: there's the friendly and frantic chubby guy, powerful voice, cigarette when he can't sing. He knows some words in Italian and doesn't hesitate to flaunt them. His name is Greg, and he brings along a strange guy, very shy, in a dark suit. He seems not to walk but float on stage. Most people indulge in a one-track hypothesis about a motorized trolley that would carry him to the microphone, otherwise unreachable for him. He's tall, hair covering his eyes, the human definition of verticality. His name is Mark.
First song. Greg yells, you can only hear him. Around, a group called Afterhours acts as an accompanying orchestra. Then the shy one, the autistic one, the other, decides to break the ice. And he grips us by the stomach, enchants us. He doesn't move his mouth, but what comes out of him is a powerful, cavernous sound, almost primordial, black like its master. A domesticated and sinister force. The songs slide away, stylish, as we follow enraptured, while good old Ciffo is helped by the cello of a gentle maid and Manuel attacks the keyboard, spreading hair long as a mop.
Then the moment. I was waiting for it. For a long time. I didn't dare hope. A song from Gentlemen. And what a piece! “What Jail Is Like”. Sung by the brothers, alternately. I can't hear it well because I'm busy shouting it. It follows with the qotsian "Autopilot", then something from the Twilight Singers ( "Strange Fruit" from "She Loves You" and maybe a piece from "Blackberry Belle" ), then a "Where Did You Sleep Last Night" quite sung along by my nearby crowd-crushers. Just as I'm beginning to hope they last another three hours, Greg says goodbye with "Cy vediamou dopou"
or something similar. A shame.
Manuel takes the reins with his typical “hello” with meatball, red tie on black shirt. A smile like “last concert of the tour”. The setlist customarily starts: almost the entire latest album, opening with the new single, “La vedova bianca”, then returns to the past for "Rapace" and "Male di Miele", "Sui giovani d'oggi ci scatarro su", "Strategie", "Dea" (with Ciffo on vocals), a sprinkle of "Quello che non c'è", while "Non è per sempre" isn't for tonight. Maybe it's the comparison with the previous performance of the "brothers", maybe it's the stars, but today Agnelli seems a bit tired: voice that struggles a bit in the highs and perhaps is too hard on the typical dirty growl of certain pieces.
Around me, to the oceanic pushes of a particularly violent mosh pit, adds the friendly aerial activity of a fan (yes, always and only one) in the mood for crowd surfing. Meanwhile, Manuel thanks as much as he can, smiles, and jokes, at some point he lets himself go on about current affairs mentioning New Orleans, practices with conviction his now famous self-spitting, duets with Greg (who as usual doesn't say no to the role of additional guitarist: but what does Ciccarelli, already Iriondo's stand-in, think of this and, above all, what's he doing here?).
Scene from an idyll: while I'm trying to resist another assault from the huns behind me, I notice Greg under the stage, lit cigarette. He's taken a break from on-stage activity and watches his Italian friend, sings one of his songs, spreads his arms when the Milanese approaches amused. To seal the union, in the final moments, “Voglio una pelle splendida”, a must when the two perform together. As usual, it makes its damn impression. And it tells us that the evening is drawing to a close.
Technicians run like ants at a picnic: the second microphone returns and Mark materializes again, for two (three?) pieces together with the adopted brother. I watch his spectral figure once more, fascinated. When the instruments finally fall silent, the usual goodbyes, hands to the sky, in the air, smiles. Not him, Mr. Lanegan rotates on himself and heads, naturally without moving a muscle, towards the exit, towards his personal universe.
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