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Rating: OLIMPICO: LIGA'S DAY
He strokes the guitar, pulls back his thick mane, and finally blows into the microphone with his unmistakable raspy and baritone voice: the day of days for the Romans has arrived.
No moralistic lessons, no sound-packed text messages to tame swarms of thundering youngsters, no Vasco-style academia or parish recital tunes like Pezzali, Liga is interested in raw rock, the kind played with old neighborhood friends, the kind sung with ears tuned to the melody and the brain to the sensations, the kind made of ballads with a taste of rock unaffected by the passage of time, the kind that tells of certain nights when you come and go like stars without a sky able to contain them. In a stadium rendered an Olympus of music by legendary concerts that have taken place over the years, Liga does not betray expectations and plays for two and a half hours in a concert that the sixty thousand names and as many surnames will be able to tell their grandchildren about.
The Roman (and not only) fans start the siege of the outer gates of the Olimpico at 9 a.m. The much-feared predicted rain now seems just a bad memory, and at 2 p.m. the relay at the inner gates starts unsettling quite a few fans. At the second barricade, sweaty and tangled bodies stampede to get in, and upon opening, they rush down to the enormous eighty-meter stage. Over the hours, those present double, triple, reaching the confirmed sixty thousand. After the supporting acts Rio and Velvet, evening falls, and the stadium suddenly becomes a field of fireflies. With a delay of a few minutes compared to the schedule, the light floods the sixty thousand names and surnames, and the Emilian rockstar, accompanied by the historical ClanDestino and members of the Band, gives his fans yet another unforgettable concert, full of technique and content, but we already know all this.
Everyone wants to travel first-class; we are all one, none, and a hundred thousand; we all have our day of days, our Wednesday leones; we all have our Bar Mario; we all know that love matters and oh, how it matters; we are all here on Earth to make love (and Liga thanks you); we all dance on the world; we all know the smell of sex; we all come and then we go, but before, all roads lead to him; in the end, what does it matter, the important thing is to be between stage and reality, there on that field like midfielders, where you come and then go away as light as plexiglass souls, like on a field of fireflies, ready to shout for the day of days one has.
Thank you, Liga, for making love with us, you who know the sky, but it's better if women don't know this.
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