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Rating: We arrive at the Szene early, Andrea explained the way so well that I could do it with my eyes closed. We arrive early and it's sold out. "Sold out, I'm sorry" ...no, you don't understand anything, bouncer friend, I think, I'm here to grope Steve Albini's ass and I will make sure I do it. I come from Naples and what the hell, I'm getting in... "I'm sorry"... what are you sorry for? why? I get in and then you can even beat me up, I won't fight back, I'll pretend we're in a mosh pit. Viennese people, anyway, aren't violent, he would have never beaten me up, maybe just locked me in a cellar for a few decades, and they don't seem to accept confrontation and in fact, a bespectacled idiot sells me two tickets. I throw him a Vierzig Euro and he wets his pants. Surely he is not Neapolitan nor does he have any Neapolitan ancestors: a Neapolitan would have gotten me down to thirty each while making me believe he was doing me a favor and cared about me.
We wander around the place a bit. Nice, nice setup. Twenty minutes and a tall blonde German girl with a Les Paul hooking up to an old Fender Bassman takes the stage. After five minutes she's not bad. After ten, I wonder why she doesn't dismiss the octave. After fifteen, I realize she doesn't have any octave. After twenty minutes, I don't understand if it's still the same song or if I've missed something. After twenty-five, I tell myself she plays the guitar as well as she is at breaking balls. After thirty, Denise tells me she's had enough: I concur. After thirty-five, I say she's good, a pain, but good. After thirty-seven minutes my balls are so destroyed that the 8:30 mass could even serve as glue. After thirty-eight, I think that everything has already been said and done in music and that we've reached the bottom, better play with burps and farts. After forty minutes she unplugs the guitar, says goodbye, and leaves: I think God can be very mean, but deep down he's fair. For the record, her name is Allroh and knowing the name, she can be avoided.
The first to get on stage is that caveman Todd along with his horrible hair and he sets the drums ten centimeters from the edge of the stage. Then Bob arrives and unplugs the monitor, fixes the mic stand, picks up the bass, and plays a little bit before leaving again. Lastly, Steve arrives in a blue metalworker's suit, removes the monitor too, fixes the stand, and positions the two pedals. Now he also has a Bassman. There they are: zero luxuries, zero superstructures. Only music.
Ten minutes, they don't look at the audience, they grab the tools and blast out My Black Ass and I remember thinking there are times when one song is enough to make you feel good. I remember being under the stage screaming, I remember smiling and hugging Denise. She’s happy too. I remember Steady As She Goes and the girl from Vienna talking to a guy about us, not knowing that we understand a bit of German, I remember she danced strangely, like an Ian Curtis having a fit and I think she liked it... I mean the Shellac. I remember a La string breaking and the replacement taking thirty seconds. I recall Be Prepared and Denise shouting at me "See!?! Even the Verdena make mistakes". I didn't answer that the song is supposed to be that way, I just smiled at her. I remember Squirrel Song and how I moved my ass, Prayer to God and having no spit left from yelling, The End of The Radio and Todd getting up and acting foolish, I remember the question time and without warning they start playing silence: a note every thirty seconds, a snare per minute. It’s a strange effect but pleasant. The mind expands. You close your eyes and feel like you're looking out of an airplane window: a sea of clouds and silence. The silence and calm.
When everything is over, we go to take the U3. There’s no one while we walk. I am happy. I have seen history, it doesn’t have a nice mug, and it hits like Rambo Policano but I like it. I see my face in the subway glass. Looking in the mirror is like seeing yourself think and I don’t think, I just laugh: to be happy you need to be a bit stupid. We arrive home, and Andrea and Laura are asleep: SILENCE. I lay my head on the pillow and feel I’m a bit sweaty and it’s good that it’s so: what kind of concert would it be without sweat? I remember thinking as I slowed my breath that a thousand years are not enough to see all the beautiful things in the world, in Vienna, and with Shellac. I need to make a list, I need to ponder, select. I need to delete some crap from the hard disk, I need to get picky. Here it is: I remember ordering myself to delete some records and thinking that a lot of stuck-up punks should stick their heads up Steve Albini's ass to see what a heavyweight eats.
Now I’m at home. A friend tells me that he went to see the Afterhours on Friday. He liked them, and I tell him it’s true that beauty is in small things, but those too small will never satiate you and when they do, they will make you sick, but he doesn't understand me. I’m thinking about the article I just read. Nico Marquardt, a nerd high school student from Humbolt, won a school award with an essay on Apophis, the asteroid that should hit the Earth in 2036 with the force of 65,000 atomic bombs. Nico, this nuisance, redid NASA's calculations and says there's a one in 450 chance and not one in 45,000. I have way too little time to waste with bullshit each time... maybe.
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