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(Fundamental premise: all the events reported below might be authentic; the characters, however, surely are, alas for the human race. May the malevolent and Caribbean force never be with you.)
My life as a black belt in metal is becoming harder every day. I try to integrate into the pop world, amidst all these bursts of syrupy joy, but nothing: my diabolical and inhuman spirit refuses to compromise.
I couldn't miss the "Purulent Spermcanal" concert. Nor could my space/metal brother Talebano, and from Italy, our thrash/gothic brother Beppe joins us. Among metal brothers, there's no sentimentalism: a handshake, a burp in the face, and off we go.
We have to pass through Portobello Road, and we do. "But there's the malevolent and Caribbean force today!" hisses Talebano with Dali-esque mustaches in my face. We will defeat them with the power of a burp, I retort.
We enter the malevolent road, the mirage of the Purulent Spermcanal is right there, behind a cloud of roasted and scantily clad cows.
Millions of people welcome us with Latin screams, gyrating asses, dazzling smiles. And then music, music everywhere, and dancing, and singing, and joy. Talebano's body reacts and vomits on my studs. We'll make it, brother, I reassure him. We will win, a black belt in metal never loses.
We face the first level: Afro-latin. A 5-by-5 black giant shoots a barrage of beastly beats with names like Machito, Willie Bobo, Ocho, Cal Tjader, Eddie Palmieri, Ray Barretto, Joe Cuba at us from the stage. My body reacts and vomits on Talebano's mustache. The floats block our way, people sweat to the most disparate rhythms, writhing to the sound of a thousand amplifiers all over.
We advance to the second level, passing through the floats. Thousands of people hop to the house rhythm dictated by a 6-by-6 black figure, machine-gunning my stomach with 4/4 from the stage. Who knows why these blacks are always cheerful, who knows why you never find a black person at a Purulent Spermcanal concert.
My left foot starts moving, even Beppe moves, but hides not to be seen by me, but I see him clearly, the rascal. People crush me, writhe, walk over me, touch my ass, and dance, dance till exhaustion. I look at their faces, and see happy people. Then I look at Talebano's mustache and remember the Purulent Spermcanal. We move on.
At the third level, there's drum & bass: the end. A 12-by-12 beast certainly not artificially tanned shoots at my heart Roni Size, Photek, Squarepusher, Mocean Worker, Kosheen. A girl beautiful as the sun tears me from Talebano and takes me inside. I look at her, look at the hundreds of thousands of people sharing this world with me, look at Talebano's mustache and start to dance. The malevolent and Caribbean force enters me. Then I look at Talebano and realize the Caribbean force has entered his mustache too, for they start dancing. Even Beppe dances. This time the rascal can't hide, I see him getting his ass touched too. We all dance. I take Talebano's mustache and do a waltz with them.
At the fortieth level, there's the monster, Portobello Road ends. In front of us, the venue where the Purulent Spermcanal play. We look at it, at each other.
We turn off the computer and start again.
By evening, the concert is lost, thousands of mosh pits wasted. The malevolent and inhuman force whips us as it should, we are ashamed of ourselves, Talebano's mustache droop, Beppe buys a ticket to return to Cinisello Balsamo. We take turns vomiting on each other's studs. Then a handshake, a burp in the face, and we make up a lie to tell our grind/metal brother Tommaso. If he found out that Beppe traveled 2000 kilometers to see the Portobello carnival, he'd at least take back his yellow belt. Heaven forbid.
May the malevolent and inhuman force never abandon you, for goodness' sake.
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