Third and final day of this Traffic Festival, which confirms itself as one of the most interesting events of the Turin summer. There were many reasons for me to follow it even in the past days: from the wild hormone that drives me towards any of the CocoRosie with prior approval from fellow josi_, talent scout of the two, to the beloved Carmen Consoli polished with ethnicity, who only shines when she launches into Franz Ferdinand-esque versions of her Fiori D'Arancio or makes a jewel out of the tension of Geisha even acoustically, up to the Bright Eyes of a Conor Oberst increasingly like a new Robert Smith, even more egocentric and emotional than the original, if possible.
The main feature of today is the prevalence of the editorial line over the names involved, the day is indeed dedicated to Manchester in a twinning of northern industrial cities, as Tony Wilson, the boss of Factory, the historic Mancunian record label, will later say on the main stage before introducing New Order.
The starting point is precisely the history of the label and the Hacienda, another historic local nightclub, as described in 24 Hour Party People, a film by Michael Winterbottom that traces the evolution of the city's music scene from post-punk to rave culture, scheduled as a national premiere in the afternoon. Furthermore, we are at the twenty-fifth anniversary of Ian Curtis's death, a new film centered only on his personal story is about to be made, and the 80s revival confirms its presence in many recent musical productions, making the theme as current as ever.
Before New Order perform, the 808 State, a historic name of the local club culture, take the stage, with Graham Massey, already a collaborator of Bjork in the essential Debut and Post. For those like me who expected something more akin to a DJ set, here we find a live act in Prodigy style, quite played and with impactful tracks, including the Pacific State, anthem of a Manchester relocated to the Balearics, with Massey himself playing the soprano sax.
Then Tony Wilson himself takes the stage, presenting New Order with emphasis as the only band to have changed their sound not one, not two, but three times, here translated by a beautiful female presence as frenetic as a Sabina Guzzanti on acid. The speech ends with: Fuck U2, this is New Order! Then finally the ceremonies end and the music begins.
Our guys enter and it's pointless to hide how the years have passed: Bernard Sumner is an overweight fifty-year-old and the pitch black dye of Stephen Morris's hair is visible well beyond the drum set. Perhaps Peter Hook manages better with cocky poses while brandishing the bass on his knees. It's almost absurd to notice these things for a band whose image has always been so little visible.
The concert presents itself as a greatest hits containing all the different souls of the band and picks up the path traced in the film. The beginning is a phenomenal double, Crystal and Regret are the quintessence of pop, practically perfect singles, the distillation of the best English-oriented pop-dance-rock. We immediately connect to the latest album with Krafty, while the titular Waiting For The Sirens' Call is embellished in a chase between the melody sung by Sumner's voice and that played by the trademark, Hook's bass.
There's room for four Joy Division pieces, Transmission, Atmosphere, She's Lost Control, and, sung in chorus by an unexpectedly involved audience, Love Will Tear Us Apart: dance, dance, dance to the radio, punk transfigures into dance.
The misunderstandings of Ceremony are no more, here the voice is Sumner's, without fear of being anything other than the original. It seems absurd to see the audience moshing and dancing indifferently to these songs. Next to me, barrylindon looks at me like a dad who has taken his kid to the rides, I don't even know anymore whether to dance or jump.
Following are the great classics of their repertoire: Temptation, Love Vigilantes, an unexpected Everything's Gone Green. Hypnotic nursery rhymes, artificially deprived of any emotional expression, icy synthesis of a tragedy until re-emerging, reclaiming a voice of its own: there's a devastating humanity in these songs, the effort to disguise one's feelings, the struggle to resume an interrupted conversation, the intimate and dialogical tone of a monologue without answers.
The dance soul is instead True Faith, initially almost unrecognizable in the recovery of the club version with those keyboards so late '80s house, but the bass solo and the incompleteness of the finale reconcile me with this uncertain beginning. Bernard Sumner may be a fifty-year-old with a belly, but this doesn't prevent him from dancing around carefree like a youngster on Bizarre Love Triangle, reprised in the abridged version of the latest greatest hits.
In the encore, another surprise, Your Silent Face from "Power Corruption & Lies", with Sumner playing the melodica, then the grand finale - which is obviously - Blue Monday, to date the best-selling twelve-inch of all time, with that unmistakable snare drum making it a timeless dance piece, introduced here by a sample of Kylie Minogue's voice in Can't Get You Out Of My Head that closes the circle on the appropriation of sounds and atmospheres already suggested by the bastardpop versions. Final exit, the audience calls them back on stage with an improbable choir on the melodic line at the end of the song, but the lights go up without the awaited return. Thus ends a memorable concert and I'm left with a single image, their faces illuminated by a horizontal band of white light in the darkness.
Heart and Soul.
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