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Being just a few inches away from one of your all-time idols. Steve Albini. A monument of rock. Someone who kicks ass and doesn't seem to have aged a day. Shellac. A war machine. An unexpected blow that makes you relish it. A band to see from the front row, to live, to sweat, to hold close to your heart.
It's infernally hot at Bloom in Mezzago. While the noise cellist is playing her opening act for Shellac, I'm outside. A couple of beers, some cigarettes, chatting nonsense with friends, discreet glances at our local VIPs (Giorgio Prette-Afterhours, Alberto and Roberta-Verdena), and finally, our guys take the stage. They seem like calm people. Anything but rock stars. For a moment, I imagine Steve’s hands still dirty with paint from Warhammer miniatures. He has that nerdy look. A calm nerd. Calm people... the calm before the storm (I'm in the second row, sweating like Busi's butt after a "backdoor" encounter).
1, 2, 3, quat...explosion. My Black Ass, damn! The guitar is a chainsaw. The bass is a wall of materials yet to be invented. The drums, dry, straightforward, crooked. A devastating mosh pit starts, suddenly pushing me three rows back. But who the hell cares?! The sonic blades reach you everywhere, there is no escape.
After the first song, they are soaked. They drip passion. The droplets on Albini's face look like tears. His expression is dramatic. Beautiful. I regret not being a good photographer because I would capture this. In a snapshot. A snapshot that encapsulates the essence of rock, devoid of its unnecessary frills. These 3 old boys could play in pajamas and slippers. In underwear. Naked. Dressed as Gabibbo, or as Pufolente the dog. They are dynamite, and all you can do is bend over and be grateful.
The concert goes on with an impressive rhythm for about an hour and a half. A long enough period not to think about anything outside those four walls. Because you're there. You're there, and you wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
While they are finishing the last song, Steve and Bob put down their instruments and dismantle, piece by piece, Todd's entire drum kit, while he is still playing it. Bastards!
The performance can be summed up in the few words spoken in Italian by the frontman: "porco d**, porca m*****a" (I assure you, there were far fewer asterisks that night).
I urgently need a beer. I go out to smoke with my fellow adventurer, whom I tell: " you know very well that we can't leave without a photo with Steve, right?" We go back inside and take the damn photo. And it's precisely at that moment that I understand what it means to talk with your god, at the exact moment when I look at him and say: "you are..." Nothing. You are, nothing. The sentence ends with that damn 40-tooth smile you see in the photo.
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