Rondo da Sosa
Live @ Liv

Sometimes They Come Back

I was ready, dressed in a white linen shirt, baggy jeans, and elegant white shoes (all borrowed from my old man who, being complicit, told me, "tonight you'll score!"). It was my first time going to the renowned nightlife venue Liv, a little legend circulating among school desks, the ultimate nightclub in Bassanese, the place for in people.

I was armed with a forced smile and a tan from the day before, my shirt was unbuttoned, and my jeans were too baggy; my long hair framed my face, and I was ready.

We entered at 9:30, a rookie mistake, as the venue was still half-empty, and the few people present were minding their own business. I attempted with nonchalance to ask for a beer to ease my nerves; the prices were criminal (5€ for a bottle of water!), and the bartender, not to offend me, advised me to go to another balcony since it was warm there. The security was intimidating; they were stocky and tattooed, and one of them sternly told me to throw away the redbull can, which could become a weapon.

We started moving towards the stage, the audio was terrible, and people began to crowd to secure the front spots where the real magic would happen. I thought it was customary to dress like I did, but instead, I saw many guys dressed similarly and uniformly in tracksuits and white t-shirts. Clearly, I wasn't used to this type of venue.

The DJ reprimanded us, labeling us as "a dull audience," blaming the heat, even though he kept playing bland and boring stuff. After a while (around 11), he caught on and played more dance music (even the evergreen "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)" by ABBA) and classic recent and past hits. By then, the crowd (myself included, feeling surprisingly at ease) began to enjoy themselves, and around midnight HE arrived, the main attraction of the evening, Rondo da Sosa, a trap artist of the drill style who blew up recently more due to the unintentional comedy of his character than his talent.

He paced back and forth on the stage, his gang drenched us in water mixed with sweat, probably in playback because when he spoke between songs, you couldn't understand a word. He asked for a cigarette from someone in the audience ("like Jim Morrison"), performed many encores (more due to the limited material than our requests), brought two guys on stage and had them do a rather sad (yet thrilling) stage dive.

Meanwhile, under the stage, I found myself in the middle of a sort of mosh pit/group dance with some big guys flailing their legs wildly. A girl (not very pretty-faced N.d.A) started twerking on one of these big guys, while navigating the flow of raised arms and shoves, I moved closer to the stage. I didn't know a word of the songs, never listened to one of his tracks entirely, and up until a year ago, I would have preferred cutting off an arm rather than attending such a concert. Yet, there I was, with arms outstretched, trying to touch or at least catch the gaze of a mediocre artist and plagiarizer of foreign drill attitudes (especially the American one, R.I.P. Pop Smoke).

For the last piece, he repeated (but with more emphasis) his most famous track, "Face to Face," of which I incredibly knew half the chorus, and we ended up singing it in unison, idolizing him. Once the show ended, he greeted us, thanked us, mumbled some words, and left.

As people were leaving (it was about one o'clock by then), I found myself leaning against the stage, dancing to the DJ's music, until I discovered that the two friends I had come with had gone home because their mom showed up, annoyed by the late hour. Tired, I exited and called my old man to pick me up, while I befriended a parking attendant as I waited.

Happy with the evening, I asked the two friends to send me videos or photos taken since I hadn't taken any, wanting to fully enjoy the show.

What makes me better than those people? The fact that I'm aware of how ridiculous I was in that situation? The fact that, just to hang out at clubs and have a night out, I spat on my principles becoming what I had promised to fight against? Or perhaps theirs was genuine fun, not conditioned by the need to appear and post an insta story showcasing their coolness and superiority to their circle of acquaintances? Or maybe this is just a mental masturbation dictated by boredom and rehashing overstated and repeated concepts?

I have a headache, and I realize that returning with such a review on Debaser is a bit diva-like. Sorry.