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Disclaimer: review written by a fan.
I was in doubt until the last moment whether to use my ticket purchased months ago and risk ruining my fondest rock memory, namely the Folletti concert in Milan, at the Alcatraz, 30 years ago. The premises were not good at all: apart from the fact that I am part of the pixomaniacs who have never fully come to terms with the (artistic) departure of Kim Deal, my fear was mainly of witnessing the obligatory hour and a quarter to present most of the latest album, something from the other two, and finally some concessions to good-timers like me who came to listen to the real stuff (and by real stuff, I mean ALL the songs from the first 4 albums). I'm glad I took the risk. Despite the acoustics of the Paladozza, presumably excellent for a basketball game but frankly questionable for a concert of this kind; despite having had the stupid idea of resigning myself to the stands, conceding the floor to the young punk rockers; despite our man still clearly eating too much and having donned a black suit that makes him look like an overweight tanguero; despite the rose stuck on the bridge of Paz Lenchantin's bass being pathetically adolescent as if to apologize for the presence of the "intruder" by showing a sign of peace; despite a poor bastard continuing to boo poor Paz every time she tries to sing solo (I hope you read this, poor bastard); even though indeed, maybe the poor bastard is not entirely wrong since it is inevitable to feel that the bassist is a stand-in; despite Joey Santiago still having some uncertainties playing the guitar after thirty years; despite all this, I tell you I witnessed a majestic concert, 2 hours of unparalleled music (interspersed with rarefied commercials: the new songs, to be clear), the usual furious mix of folk rock punk rockabilly, with western but also Hawaiian overtones, the usual blend of melodic sweetness and screaming madness, of rhythmic and melodic solutions born from a brief and intense season of magic. Just music, not even a wink, not a single word. An uninterrupted cavalcade of songs that break your heart (even the overused "Where Is My Mind" was played with determination and respect, and I was afraid of lighters, or rather cell phones, but everyone kept their hands down, evidently, we were 6000 decent people...). It starts, as it did thirty years ago, with "Cecilia Ann," and I’m already moved, shortly after it's the turn of "Brick Is Red," my absolute favorite song (of everything I've ever listened to until today), and there I silently cry, grateful. Then lots of beautiful things: "Crackity Jones," "Number 13," "Caribou," even Neil Young's "Winterlong" and "La Isla de Encanta," which the Paladozza transforms into a clattering and apocalyptic convoy crossing some Mexican desert. "Gouge Away," "Tame," "Bone Machine," "Vamos." And let’s end it here. An impressive sequence of masterpieces slightly burdened by newer material. In the end, it is they, the Folletti, who are surprised and smile proudly at the roar with which a crowd of mostly coeval Italians thanks them for these thirty years spent listening to their songs. Which I have never gotten tired of
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