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Rating: When you spend an atypical June day walking through Rome, from the bottom to the top, then back down again, even lower, among the asphalt shouting against gray and deaf buildings, there's nothing you can desire more than the warm moans of an old sharecropper of the blues to comfort your tired heart, as the curtain closes in front of a sick sun.
With this, I preface my enormous expectations towards the old Robert Belfour, carpenter of Mississippi blues: 73 years of experience emerging between the labyrinthine wrinkles of his hands, black as the night. The concert is held at the Init, during the Mojo Station Blues Festival, which, it seems gloriously, has reached its ninth edition. I arrive among the imperious Roman arches surrounding the venue in time for the performance of that funny Dixie man who seems to be Lightnin’ Malcolm. He also comes from the hot fields of Mississippi, but his skin is white and he's half the age of grandpa Robert. Nevertheless, he offers almost an hour of electric and sincere blues, between classic rhythms and more modern tones, occasionally accompanied by a harmonica player. He engages and makes the front rows move their butts, then bids us farewell by announcing the imminent arrival of the "last living legend of the blues: Mr. Robert Belfour!”
I calmly step outside to get some air and finish my bottle of wine, convinced that, according to posters and flyers, it was the job of the Left Lane Cruisers, from Indiana, to introduce the evening's headliner. Instead, driven by my sixth sense (and from what Malcolm said earlier), I return inside and on stage, a white light divinely illuminates the shape of Mr. Belfour. His body emits vibrations that whistle in my head and I find myself under the stage with the look of a drunk fool, inhaling the scent of his acoustic guitar so old, so lived-in. He sits in the center of the stage on a chair. To his right, on the ground, there's a black leather bag that could contain a gun or all his infinite wisdom (it actually contains a towel he uses to wipe his face between songs). He talks, talks, talks again with that slow, hoarse, and exhausted voice I had only heard so far on old Chess Records albums or in primitive recordings by Alan Lomax. Light suit, hat with a feather, elegant dark shoes. He is black as ink on a faded white page. Behind him is the big and broad Lightin’ Malcolm (he can play any instrument put in front of him) softly keeping time on the drums. Over the course of about forty intense minutes, Robert Belfour churns out four or five lengthy blues, between howls à la Howlin' Wolf and spoken phrases. The audience is in ecstasy: they whistle, dance, howls. But something disturbs me in this vortex of frenzy. I listen, watch in silence, and try to be carried away, but I notice that the bluesman, born in '40, between a verse and another, lets flow, like minute, gelatinous snakes, not-too-small rivulets of drooling saliva from his lips, while he laboriously drags, raving a bit, words from tongue to microphone. The fingers seem to follow an otherworldly instinct as they frenetically move on the six strings, but they travel on a guitar that sounds - these words seem heretical, and I cry when I say them - acidic and out of tune. Malcolm, in his shadow, furrows his brow and follows, sweating, with his eyes the notes that disperse and disappear in the irregularity that moves them. Until someone peeks out from the exit door at the back of the stage (probably the organizer) who, with silent gestures, asks the drummer if everything is okay, if Robert can carry on. In fact, after the song ends, Malcolm stands up, takes Belfour's microphone, and greets everyone by reminding us once again that: "Robert Belfour, ladies and gentlemen, is the last living legend of the blues!" I remain perplexed under the stage, watching first Belfour himself, who leans out from the high stage of the Init to shake hands in a more than precarious balance, and then Malcolm, the organizer, and two other guys who help the old bluesman off the stage, weaving through chairs, cables, and whatnot. I step outside again, not knowing what to say. I had come seeking the mystical and shamanic ecstasy of the old sounds of African America and found myself facing the terrible and killer Time, which kills and has no cemeteries. Without a doubt, Robert Belfour has been, and still is, a man who deserves respect, without reservations. But in my opinion, he has reached a point where I find it in poor taste to have him perform from one continent to another, night after night. I drink a beer and accept the fact that you can't live the past. Otis Redding is no more. Muddy Waters is no more. Robert Belfour, alas, is no more.
P.S. a call of distorted, muted guitars awakens me from my sad existential thoughts and sucks me back inside the venue where I find the duo Left Lane Cruisers, who lift my spirits with a fiery garage-blues set that ends with a sparkling jam session involving the ever-present Lightin’ Malcolm on guitar. Pedals, slides, beer glasses scattered on the ground. A raw, sweaty concert, deserving a 10 out of 10, that closes this fantastic Roman festival, for better or worse, with the cherry on top.
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