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Rating: That postmodern thing (how else to define it?) that bears the name Mike Patton was playing in Pordenone the other night.
Mystical visions in the Friulian countryside.
This time little Michael went into the Pat-Cave and pulled out the superhero pop outfit: Peeping Tom.
Deposito Giordani is lost in the middle of the woods, and when we arrive, we find an industrial shed turned venue. It fits.
As we enter, Dub Trio is performing on stage, accompanying Patton throughout the tour not only as an opening act and co-authors of a track on the latest album but as Michael’s true band.
They kick out a sound that is beautifully sticky, heavy, resinous. Worth a replay.
Then the show begins (and I believe this word is very dear to Pattone), and he enters: he looks like he just came out of a villa in Santa Barbara, Los Angeles.
Everyone knows he’s a stage animal, the first thing that comes to mind is: style.
You see him wade through pop without ever getting his hands dirty in banality, always balancing between irony and genius. He alternates moments reminding you that he has something to say about the cross-over topic, with others where, if I were a rapper, I might reconsider my choices. Pure class bottles tossed from the stage.
Moreover, since Michael’s schedule is like a magician’s top hat, there’s a certain Mr. Rahzel (or Rosario according to Patton’s introductions, as he seems to have learned Italian from The Godfather trilogy rather than his ex-wife) accompanying him on stage; and it’s a show within a show, because this guy from New York must have swallowed a TR-909 as a child and hasn’t spit it out yet.
The pieces bounce off quickly, he’s obviously in fine form, and people are having fun.
It doesn’t last more than an hour and a half, in which only a portion of the Pattonesque universe is condensed, but it’s more than enough.
As we left, we noticed a trailer hitched to his tour bus. Probably where they keep him imprisoned between dates.
Or maybe it's just the means of transport for his ego.
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