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Rating: We arrive at this esteemed venue, the 041 in Marghera, which is a converted former railway depot, a little before eleven. I discover (!) that it’s the promotional tour for the new album "Colleidoscope". Darkness. They come out. Roar. I was told it was the original lineup, but I immediately notice that Muzz Skillings isn't there, but rather the usual Doug Wimbish, with a towel-like bandana draping down his back, holding his braids. Vernon Reid, with a few more years and a few less meters of colorful dreadlocks, is hard to recognize.
The concert begins, without any emphasis. I settle in quite calmly, listening to the first songs, nothing special. I remain cold, I think... things have changed... Is it that I am still cold and skeptical, or am I witnessing some kind of reunion for nostalgic fans? The average age of the audience is high for a rock concert. But I don't have time to complete these thoughts. I don't know what happens, little by little a strange electricity starts to rise. The audience notices. The four on stage become darker, more tense, creating an atmosphere of high pressure that preludes a storm.
The crazy Doug Wimbish remains all alone on stage, and he almost seems more at ease... A frenzied drum machine, Wimbish clings to the wah-wah and kicks off an amalgamation of celestial sounds, rumbles, noises mixed with bass solos worthy of his buddy Reid, creating a terrifying rhythmic vortex, a hurricane that crashes down on the audience for several minutes, yelling inside us: “This is the way we play terrorism! Bush is a terrorist! Blair is a terrorist!”. I'm stunned, never seen such force, it’s like Malcolm X reincarnated. Once this cataclysm is over, Wimbish recovers for a second, flashes a smile, then launches into the riff of “Seven Nation Army”... general disorientation... it seems like a joke, but then the whole band comes out with Vernon Reid even singing!
Now that the door is open, we're off. The classics roll in, one after another: Cult Of Personality, Type, Love Rears Its Ugly Head, Pride, even the sweet Glamour Boys. In the end, they slap on a... reggae, which seems strange but is splendidly coherent with everything else, the people are having fun and they on stage even more. The guy next to me lights up a joint that immediately fills the air. From New York's tough, cultured, and angry black power to a Jamaica sound à la Wailers, the step is very short, the proof is still in our ears. Magic tricks. They are saying to us, smugly: we can do anything.
The concert is over, but the audience calls out loudly. Calhoun comes back and questions the crowd, rhetorical, shouting: “Are you sure you want some more? Are you really sure you want some more?”. The uproar builds. I begin to worry: what the heck will they do now? I cross my arms, let's see. A few more seconds, here they come. A few notes and I recognize it: oh my god, ohmygod! I jump in too, bouncing like a crazy fool... “You jump in front of my car when you... know all the time... ninety miles an hour, girl... is the speed I drive...”. Everyone sings at the top of their lungs like mad, it’s the apotheosis. After a beer, we head home, exhausted yet still electrified. Happy. Tomorrow is Saturday, there are other things to think about. We'll think about it tomorrow.
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