Muso 2016
Terza Serata

Sunday, July 24, 2016, «Muso 2016 – Live Music & Comics» comes to an end, marking the third and final evening.

But emotion and sadness are banished because this is the wild rock 'n' roll night and The Bone Machine is coming to Oriolo. And if yesterday hit hard, today I might end up on the mat and not get up again.

I'm here; today I absolutely can't miss it. And there's the third girlfriend of the third night, and she doesn't want to miss the appointment either.

Departure is set for eight, when a biblical sandstorm hits the area, but even Jupiter Pluvius can't stop the night's proceedings: at nine-thirty, Il Branco will take the stage, and not a drop will fall from the sky until the echo of the last note played by The Cyborgs fades away.

At worst, my car might suffer the consequences, but a bit of elbow grease over the weekend will make it like new: by the way, I don't have a Ford Cortina, my girlfriends aren't Janie Jones, nor am I their lover, but I hope you'll forgive me for a bit of fiction.

And considering I'm in a confessing mood, tonight I wasn't the one to invite the girlfriend to Oriolo, but vice versa, so I'm accompanied by a lovely lady who lost her head for punk rock many years ago. She called me last month, drafted me for the event, and allowed no refusal. I am honored.

Anyway, I jump into my Cortina at eight, and five minutes later, I'm outside the lady's house. She's already on the street, jumps in without wasting time, and off we go, speeding to the third and final night in Oriolo.

Tonight, I park where I parked yesterday; in place of the shiny Beetle stands a pre-war Panda that doesn't provoke criminal thoughts. I'm so pumped up that I tackle the terrifying hill with the enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old going to his first date: at eight-thirty-two, we break through Muso's gates in record time. There's over an hour and a half until the concerts start, the equipment on the stage is covered with tarps, and the atmosphere is desolate.

Nothing else to do but a quick stop at the little restaurant: on this occasion, neither of us came having had dinner because DeMa was overturned enough yesterday, and he gets our greetings and respect. It's just us; the service is all for us; wild boar and lamb come and go and it's a pleasure, soda water and beer too. With great pleasure, however, it's already past nine-twenty, time to leave the little restaurant, after paying the bill and leaving a generous tip.

On the march again, the next stop is the assorted gadget stand. We already have all The Bone Machine records, so I buy the t-shirt depicting the cover of «La Vita Finisce, La Strada No», size XXL as usual, I gift her the one with «Giù Nel Mio Inferno», size M, damn her, and among everything else, forty euros fly away. If I had known, I'd have gone to see the boss's concert and skipped this three-day event; I probably would have saved money. People talk a lot about gender equality, but it's never happened to me to go out with a female who even hints at paying her share; never once. It must be obvious from a mile away that money is pouring out of my ears. And with this, I end my rant.

Getting closer to the stage, we put on our new t-shirts, and we look really cool, the event within the event.

We're in the front row, mainly because it's just us in the square. In a few minutes, the staff arrives to remove the tarps, and the first musicians take the stage for a very quick soundcheck, as the times are tightly scheduled.

The first notes can be heard, the first faces are seen: there are about fifty of us, which is a decent turnout. Anyway, it kicks off.

It's Il Branco's turn, an author's punk band from Terni «... the lyrics have metropolitan and post-apocalyptic atmospheres, often intertwining with unresolved Dantean visions of love. The melodies, typically British, rest on a singer-songwriter mood with strong punk influences ...» and maybe it's just me that's aged badly, but until yesterday, I was willing to swear that author's punk was played by Wire. Il Branco plays an innocuous pop with vague echoes of Subsonica. They leave no mark, except for a faint one by a bad version of «Un Giudice» by Fabrizio De Andrè, and the most exciting moment is when a little kid intimidated loses sight of his mom, and they hoist him on stage until his dad comes to get him, and this is punk, we agree. The girlfriend and I sit through the entire concert under the stage, waiting for it to end soon, still wearing our badass The Bone Machine t-shirts. And like all things, this concert ends and we didn't enjoy it, neither of us did.

Break. We don't move, we don't go to the bar, and we hold our strategic position for a quarter of an hour, as the square is now full and there are about two hundred of us, all there for what comes next.

And here they are, The Bone Machine! Is it clear that we are all here for them?

Because yes, we are here for The Bone Machine, the most authentic and exciting expression of rock 'n' roll in Italy for years now. Their sound is the rock 'n' roll and rockabilly of the Fifties, what is not too daring to call proto-punk, beautifully summarized in the collection «Rockin' Bones» released years ago by the ever-meritorious Rhino Records. Inspiration comes from the Cramps, «Garbageman» and «I'm A Teenage Werewolf» are their secular bible, lyrics in Italian talk about gravediggers, coffins to fill, skeletons and zombies, surf, and swampy boogie. The Bone Machine are three: Big Daddy Rott on double bass, Black Macigno on drums, and Jack Cortese on vocals and guitar. They wear luchador masks and go a hundred miles an hour, popping out «Rock'n'Roll Zombie», «Febbre D'Amore», «Voglio Solo Te», «Siamo La Banda Che Suona Le Tue Ossa», «Blue Moon Baby» and this one was also done by the Cramps, the anthem «Jimmy Scavafosse», «Una Cassa Da Morto Foderata Di Rosso», «Sono Un Cane» and much more. But it's madness, above and below the stage; for me, it's been years since I pogoed, danced, and laughed so much at a concert. A song by The Bone Machine says «Forse Sei Già Morto» and you don't know it, but certainly not now, this terrific blow of rock'n'roll and adrenaline certify that in Oriolo we are alive, kicking, and wild. Beautiful. The Bone Machine plays for forty minutes, then an encore, and off the stage to the bar to have a drink with the audience, we offer with immense pleasure. And there, the girlfriend and I realize that for nothing in the world would we have traded this moment for the boss's concert at Circus Maximus, whatever the cost.

This is where our Muso ends, and it ends in the best possible way.

Even though around midnight, The Cyborgs take the stage, the headlining group, those who opened the Roman concert for Springsteen – him again, always him – in 2013. Their proposal follows in the footsteps initially traced by White Stripes and Kills, with a marked touch of electronics and a showy presence that arouses curiosity. Their beginnings were raw and gritty, and I preferred them to now; but having them here tonight is a godsend because they're really good.

But the Muso, for me and the girlfriend, is already finished, and we enjoy The Cyborgs sitting at a table in the little restaurant, on the edge of the square. We are still wearing our The Bone Machine t-shirts and feel really cool.

Thank you Musi, see you next year!