The sun slowly sets on a splendid day. A few people gather around the stage, some chatting, some drinking a beer. The setting provided by Piazza del Duomo is nothing short of suggestive: everything seems perfect to enjoy (before enduring) a concert that promises to be full of emotions: Anathema and Porcupine Tree together, a cursed dyad that, due to Trenitalia and the unfortunate schedules of what was then called Transylvania, nearly slipped through my fingers a few years ago, leaving me astonished and bewildered in a rainy and expensive Milan, mercilessly turned away by brawny bouncers, mocked, ridiculed, and brutalized as an innocent latecomer.

The rain and disappointment of that night fade with the contact of twilight and the gentle harmonies of this square. When I burst onto the scene, the Astra are already playing, but their distinctly seventies prog rock doesn't grab me at all: forced to play on the three square meters of stage at their disposal (the rest is occupied by Porcupine Tree's equipment), our long-haired, sideburned, bell-bottomed friends resemble a local version of PFM; my attention then turns to the opposite side of the stage, my gaze embracing the undefinable crowd of Porcupine with a small injection of Anathema's dark disciples. And so co-exist kids with Opeth T-shirts and forty-somethings whose hairstyles have seen better days, chicks with PT written in block letters on their chests and impeccable bank clerks, both in the office with their jackets and ties, and tonight with Novembre T-shirts. Strangely, I do not raise the average age of the attendees.

The North Atlantic Oscillation start, more dynamic and modern in their approach than their predecessors, but equally irrelevant to my life's economy: I sit on the steps to roll a tobacco cigarette, sip a beer, rant about great systems, but mostly think how nice it is to leave work early, enjoy a sunny day, be in the company of a good friend to finally see a concert that truly matters. And I appreciate Piazza del Duomo. And I appreciate the cold beer flowing down my esophagus. Strange but true: I appreciate life in its inscrutable simplicity (I'm probably drunk).

With the advent of darkness, the long-awaited moment finally arrives: I'm here for them, for me it's a dream finally coming true. Almost childlike and with a smile on their lips, the Anathema awkwardly scamper onto the stage, timidly greet the audience, and position themselves behind their instruments. I finally understand who's who, and who's playing what. The notes of "Deep" echo in my ears, and I couldn't welcome them more joyously, given my deep attachment to an album like "Judgement." The sounds are a bit low, the voice still covered by the other instruments, though recognizable among a thousand others. I was told that Vincent's live voice is stellar, but so far the glorious "Deep" seems performed rather academically.

"Angels Walk Among Us" and "A Simple Mistake" have the task of introducing the latest album, that "We're Here Because We're Here" that took a full seven years to arrive. Sure, if I didn't know Anathema were on stage, I'd already be throwing glass bottles at the Coldplay singer, so honeyed are the new Anathema. Yet, the new songs proceed well, the choice is wise: the first seems to take the place of the mythical "One Last Goodbye," which unfortunately we're orphaned of tonight; the second, with its crescendo towards the end, will give us the most muscular moment of the evening. If I must be honest, though, nothing truly transcends into genuine magic.

Paradoxically, it is the songs from the album I least favor from their career, "A Natural Disaster," that engage me the most: not so much the experimental "Closer," which still captivates with its pressing progression, and in which Vincent, the true showman of the evening, ventures behind the keyboards to modulate his vocoder-enhanced voice. The concert’s peak will be the subsequent pairing: "A Natural Disaster" featuring Lee Douglas turns into a pleasant introspective moment, though real chills come with Vincent’s excellent final attack, finally on point, interpreting greatly a track that never convinced me on record. And then "Flying" arrives, the emotional peak of the evening, perhaps the absolute pinnacle of the new Anathema. On the sidelines, brother Daniel (whom I expected to be the band’s true heartbeat) fulfills his duties with honesty but never amazes. Completely irrelevant (both visually and musically) the third brother Cavanagh, whom I would dearly love to go to India in search of himself to once again leave space to Anathema's only legitimate bassist: Duncan Patterson.

The concert continues with a good "Universal," which does well live, concluding under that blend between "Dark Side of the Moon" and "Ok Computer" which the six English love so much. No!, wait, there's room for one last piece: a "Fragile Dreams" hastily wrapped up, which frankly doesn’t dazzle live.

What to say, ultimately: good the first eight pieces, a shame they were the only ones! Anathema perhaps deserved more time, they were just warming up at the end. They tried to "create an event," alternating between acoustic and electric guitars as their style demands, but truly compelling pieces were the great absentees of the evening: my fellows, rightfully busy promoting their latest work, ultimately neglected (like assassins!) their past, not venturing beyond "Alternative 4," and even daring to snub a superlative album like "A Fine Day to Exit."

Poor and disappointing setlist, therefore, but above all a sound structure that seems to stand on toothpicks: a band, in summary, that struggled to replicate the alchemy created in the studio (often thanks to hyper-production) and the intensity of tracks that shine (for nuances and tonicity) decidedly more on record than live. Not only that, perhaps one realizes that Anathema pay the price of being neither fish nor fowl (which does not necessarily have to be seen as a flaw): too young for the old ones, too old for the young ones, they end up satisfying only those few oddballs who have always followed them like me. Anathema are not splendid musicians, and this was evident tonight, because on stage there seemed to be only the faded shadow of that great band I loved so much over the last 16 years and will probably continue to love! To be reviewed for better assessment.

(three balls and a half)

Let's clarify: Anathema were not a disappointment at all, and while they played I even convinced myself they were good; the problem arose when Steven Wilson made his entrance on stage, who literally cleaned out the space around him! Let’s clarify another thing: it was the fourth time I saw Porcupine Tree live (but never outdoors), I knew the absolute value of Wilson and his companions, but this time I must say that our band outdid themselves.

I was convinced "The Incident" would be played in its entirety, but fortunately, it wasn't: not because I don't like the album (quite the contrary!), but simply because I believe the beauty of a concert lies in the unpredictability of the setlist.

In any case, a good portion of the album is played: the first five pieces to be exact, up to the lively "Drawing the Line." The new songs work well, highs and lows alternate following the coordinates of today's Porcupine Tree, suspended between (trivial) modern metal and (superb) classy pop-rock.

A splendid "Lazarus" comes to illuminate our path, which, despite its commercial pull, I've always appreciated: it delights because it opens the next phase of the concert, that of the "classics."

The true magic bursts onto the stage with the pairing "Hate Song" and "Russian on Ice" (probably my PT favorite): both transformed, more electric and psychedelic than from the studio, materialize and are a joy for my ears. The impression is exactly the opposite of what was felt for Anathema: here the pieces (vibrant, tonic, energetic) live a new life, they seem to free themselves from the studio shackle to expand and soar high in the sky. These guys have guts.

The central portion of "Anesthetize" follows, capable of engaging in its surgical and metallic power. In "Blackest Eyes," the sounds start to muddle, but Porcupine Tree remain monstrous musicians, and Wilson is king of the world. Sure, Wilson won’t give us the classics for which we got to know and love him, but no one can deny his bravery in constantly confronting the more complex pieces that appear in his albums: he plays and reinterprets them with the confidence with which he could perform "La canzone del sole."

Take "Time Flies" (which I waited for eagerly!) for example: perfect in every segment. Wilson changes his guitar three times, moves from acoustic to electric and back again, aided by the retinue of servants he regularly brings along. With his straight hair and round glasses, his gloomy look facing nowhere, he moves on the stage with ease, seated, standing, singing, playing; he needs no one, not even the audience, and probably the only person he respects in the square is the "metronomic" drummer Gavin Harrison, the only element he evidently cannot do without. Rhythms, solos, arpeggios, acoustic parts: his chameleon-like flair at the guitar dominates, but our man often sat behind the Hammond as well during the concert, proving to be a complete and structured artist: he is the absolute master, definitely not a stage animal, but surely a excellent music professional.

Among the grooves of the final portion of "The Incident," as if to recover the album's concept in the concert's circular scheme (where themes from the beginning reappear at the end, in a diluted and slowed down version), the experience is now ending: there is still room for the inevitable "Trains" which, although muddled, stands as Wilson’s most important song. I end up envying him because he wrote the song of life. I did not. And you?

But as a commuter, "Trains" is also a bit mine, and with this pleasant sensation, I return home, to dive back into the monotony of daily life, fortunately brightened by splendid and shining evenings like this one.

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