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Rating: ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH review ! ! !
Which I must celebrate with a live report; and today the choice falls on the concert of my life.
Because Primus is the love of my life in Music; and it's Elisa's birthday, my life.
Therefore, a non-random choice. But let's start quickly, amidst the inevitable chills.
It is Wednesday, September 1st, 1993; I already have the ticket, which I obtained without problems in Milan when Ticket One and online purchases were not yet rampant and so challenging.
I have known Primus from cousin Les since their beginnings; our love was not immediate considering the complicated musical cauldron composed by this armed Californian trio. But within a few months, they became my champions, my myths, my absolute universe unassailable by anyone.
I choose to travel to Bologna with the comfortable state railways; I depart from my Domodossola and after a quick train change at Centrale station in Milan, I arrive in the Bolognese capital.
There are shuttle buses and soon I arrive near Parco Nord where the concert is held; I enter without finding any line and immediately purchase the t-shirt featuring the head of that pig prominent on the cover of "Pork Soda".
Before Primus, the Canadian band I Mother Earth performs (never heard of them again, and who knows what happened to them); then it's the turn of the Dutch, the authors of the most totalitarian crossover ever seen on European soil, Urban Dance Squad. They delight the already numerous and sweaty human throng with their concentrate of hardmetalfunkrap, led by that human mountain of a singer, Rudeboy, countered by the "animated" guitar of Tres Manos (and of course, having an extra hand!!!).
Forgive me, fans of the flying Dutchmen, but here I stop with them; because Primus is Primus, and that day I was in Bologna solely and exclusively for Les, Larry, and Tim...
It starts at dusk with Les's bass pulling down the first notes of "Here Come the Bastards"; a few seconds and I take off. Meaning I get thrown over the crowd by a large group of "aficionados" who will be rampant throughout the concert; I will be one of the most active (when I was young and strong and above all thin...) spending a large part of the time in the air, ending up beyond the barriers several times where my personal safety is at risk due to a rather angry security service.
I think it is useful at this point in my narration to praise for the millionth time the technique, the incredible harmony, the perfect execution of the songs by the band. They are beasts capable of pushing, of creating an even more solid and deadly sound wall compared to studio work; they don't bother with a glance during the execution of the songs. They are focused on their respective instruments and often improvise long jams that have the power to create further turmoil among the audience in the front rows.
"Nature Boy", "My name is Mud", "Fish On", "DMV", "Jerry Was a Race Car Driver" (the apotheosis), follow one another, carving deep wounds, in the true sense of the word!! in the crowd that between dust and sweat continues its personal battle with a torrential mosh pit. That knows no pauses like the auditory storm of Primus.
Thanks to friends Franchino, Diego, Daniele, and Andrea (four crazy guys from Aosta, seen again at many live acts in the nineties and then irrevocably lost) I repeatedly pass over the barriers of security; I even try a couple of times to get on stage but am rudely blocked. I try to explain that Les is a dear relative of mine, but due to language difficulties with English, I can't convince the brutes who send me back into the lion's den where I resume the wild dances with elbows held high.
If I remember correctly, "colleagues" Silas Lang and Venusiano Sarcastico were present as well.
They close with the twisted, sick, deviant psychedelia of "Harold of the Rocks"; but we wish this exhibition of pure class, of acrobatics and wonders, with never a single hint of affectation, could last forever; but all this is not possible uncle can...MR KRINKLE...
Destroyed and happy, I bid farewell to the Aosta rascals; I retrace the way back and find myself at the station. But there are no trains until the following morning; sleep is out of the question. I don't know how, but I manage to return to Domodossola on Thursday afternoon; Marina comes to pick me up and almost doesn't recognize me because of how wretched I look. A rag, with two swollen and bruised ankles because I had the crazy idea of going to the concert in a pair of low beige All-Star tennis shoes. I will never make such a mistake again!!!
Born like this, from the heart as usual; even more spontaneously...SEAS OF CHEESE...
And it is a duty to dedicate it to Marina and our "Rough Diamond".
Ad Maiora.
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