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Rating: The first time I went to Amsterdam was for New Year's Eve 2005. It was freezing cold, and I was with the assorted group of misfits I hung out with at the time. It wasn't a great trip: it lasted just three days, but there was something in the company that troubled my soul. Her name was Guendalina, and we hated each other cordially; or at least, I hated her in return, since she wouldn't even give me the time of day. Guendalina. And to think that just two months earlier, when we decided to spend New Year's there, we were sweetly in love. Then something went wrong, but the trip was already planned.
When I got home, I decided that Amsterdam was indelibly tainted, and that I would always speak ill of it. I'm a globetrotter, but I rarely return to the same place twice. And it's strange indeed that my first "second time" in a foreign city had to be Amsterdam.
The occasion was provided by a festival, the Jam in the 'Dam, which is held annually at the Melkweg, a beautiful venue for live concerts. This is where this yearly gathering of American jam bands takes place, and being a recent avid fan of a mind-blowing prog sextet called Umphrey's McGee, and discovering that their (surprisingly) only European date would indeed be at Jam in the 'Dam, I overcame my hesitations. So, backpack in hand, I departed from Rome Ciampino.
Amsterdam is different from how I remembered it: maybe it's the approaching spring, but walking its canal-crossed streets made me feel particularly light. It wasn't the whiffs of weed emanating near the coffee shops, which at every corner alternate or mix with the scent of spices used in the oriental eateries, or the smell of fries from fast food outlets. It was something else. I realized it's a great city for a weekend getaway.
A quick stop at the hostel, a stroll around Dam Square, a fast meal, and there we were at the Melkweg. As soon as I entered, the strong scent of weed welcomed me. To give an idea of the place, those in Rome might think of a setup like Stazione Birra, but with two rooms, or the Qube in Portonaccio. A place for a thousand to fifteen hundred people at most. And indeed, there weren't that many people. Mostly Americans, many drunk, like the one who wanted me to bet three beers for every song correctly guessed on the setlist! "Yeah Man, five pints.. three pints.." Nice fellow, but after a while, I politely told him to get lost in Roman dialect.
At nine, when, perfectly on time, the dances began. The Yonder Mountain String Band, a country-bluegrass quartet, opened the show. Banjo, acoustic guitar, some kind of electric mandola, and double bass. Very talented, but after three songs, I was in the other room where another set was starting, that of a certain Josh Phillips and his Folk Festival. Here I already liked it more: great voice on reggae rhythms and catchy funk rock tunes. In the end, they even gifted us a cover of "Don't Let Me Down" by the Beatles.
An hour and a half of concert, then they left the stage to The Bridge, a jam band in pure Dave Matthews style. Good, but I was only able to follow them for fifteen minutes, as I had to move back to the main hall where the UM were setting up the stage. Punctual as well (what a difference compared to the unexplained delays of anyone performing in Italy, ed), they started at eleven-thirty. After seeing them live, my impression of being in front of masters of improvised rock was confirmed: songs performed perfectly that were interrupted and blended with other tracks from their repertoire, interspersed with long and colorful jams; if during the performance of "Miss Tinkle's Overture" (from the beautiful album "Anchor Drops", I recommend it) the Melkweg seemed like a nightclub, when they started "Wizard Burial Ground" thrash metal devastated the air.
All with lightness and a general easy atmosphere from the musicians in their live approach. Towards the end, there was even time for an emotional cover of "Comfortably Numb". Two hours of music, and at the end, I managed to catch a piece of the live set by the New Mastersounds in the other room, the only English act of the lot: instrumental fusion funk with something Doors-like in the organ usage. Worth mentioning was the extraordinary technique of the drummer, a real machine of syncopated rhythms!
Grand finale, the concert of Les Claypool. The only one to delay his entrance on the stage, good old Les appeared accompanied by drums, xylophone (and various percussion), and electric cello. The musicians looked eerily alike due to disturbing masks that made them resemble sneering old monkeys. Nonetheless, this set won the prize for the best scenery of the night, with huge canvases depicting animal faces with semi-human features (or is it the other way around?) and a really effective use of lights.
Les Claypool! He is truly the greatest living bassist. With experimentation that personally reminds me of good old Mike Patton, he managed to make earth-shattering music. Yet without guitars. Occasionally, at the peak of furious jams, he would pause his musicians (all extremely gifted and spectacular) to entertain us with curious stories whose sense I didn't quite grasp but I sensed (Primus teaches) the strong surreal charge.
By the time we left the Melkweg, it was three-thirty, and Amsterdam was teeming with nocturnal life forms. The evening breeze caressed me, and the lights of the coffee shops and bars that were closing seemed like the smiles of old friends. I decided to bring to the forefront the persistent, now confused memories of that famous, freezing New Year's Eve. And the ghosts, as if by magic, were gone. I looked at the slightly misty sky of the Dutch night. Who would've thought I would make peace with that place like this? A few hours of live music, and a change of season were enough to drown everything. Take that, Guendalina!
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