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Rating: It was my last concert before becoming a father. Before that, there were so many that I can't even remember how many. Of course, we're talking about concerts, not kids. Let's be clear. I was with my fantastic better half, who didn't always accompany me (I attended many live shows alone, and I always loved doing so) because when the metal gets too heavy, she loses the magnetic effect.
March 8, 2019. While groups of hyped-up women were disrespecting their day out of aperitif drunkenness, we were entering the small Fabrique in Milan. A venue that resembles Jerry the mouse's den, with pretty good acoustics and the chance to enjoy your idols up close, with the added possibility of getting a few drops of sweat in your face or (if you're more fortunate than soulful) a guitar pick or drumstick (preferably not in your forehead).
Slash featuring Myles Kennedy & The Conspirators, a band comprising two of the most iconic representatives of the music I love. Together, on the same stage, just a few meters away from us. I'm not exaggerating when I say that the night before the concert, I had about a dozen awakenings; having slept four hours, I'd say I was understandably ignored by Morpheus and company.
But let's get back to it. We arrived way early at the venue and in a blink had already walked the perimeter twice while sipping our first beer (if you can call it that), the one that should intoxicate after the double toast eaten at home as an aperitif (even if there isn't going to be a dinner). A terrible beer that costs like open-heart surgery done in Uncle Sam's country (without health insurance), served in a plastic cup so thin it discourages any abrupt thumb movements. While considering whether I should hit the bathroom to avoid losing my spot at the edge of the stage, I realized I've already lost it. After an “I told you so!” pronounced by my better half with the tone typical of her worst days (you understand which; they come monthly), I saw that our spot had been taken. It was a gang of already-drunk folks from Orobie who, like shoppers at the opening of a clearance sale, had flocked in masses to where I hoped to spend the evening. We comforted ourselves by thinking we were too old to mosh or even take a few elbows, so we found an alternative spot not far away, occupied by other couples and some evident teetotalers.
The lights dim, the crowd roars, and my nostrils begin to detect familiar odors, which have nothing to do with incense or any essential oils. Regardless of the Sirchia law and common sense, someone has already lit their first joint of the evening and has surely put in little tobacco. Raised arms, smartphones above heads, another puff of weed now from my left, and a strong light swirling and drilling our corneas.
The Conspirators enter, scatter, and take their places through a light mist and lights. The screams grow more passionate, the lady to my left reminds me of Meg Ryan in the fake orgasm from When Harry Met Sally. Myles Kennedy arrives, greets, and takes center stage, making us jump like grasshoppers. Then Saul Hudson, aka Slash, hits the stage, and it's pandemonium. He dons the enormous top hat from which his black curls erupt, dark Ray-Bans hiding his passionate gaze, and in his hand, the beloved (and adorable) red Gibson Les Paul.
No time to handle the crowd's frenzy, and it begins. “The Call Of The Wild”, “Halo”, and “Standing By The Sun”, all in one breath, a long warm-up. Myles unbuckles, letting go of his veil of shyness, yet never losing the composure that distinguishes him. He rouses us, reaches out with the microphone, teams up with the Conspirators, while Slash ignites the pick and machine-guns riffs behind his dark lenses. “Back From Cali”, among my favorites, then “We’re All Gonna Die” and “Doctor Alibi”, both masterfully performed by Todd Kerns, the band's bassist, a tall, skinny guy with long black hair, who took over the stage, benching Myles for a moment.
From the past of “Guns N' Roses,” little makes an appearance, just the grand cover “Nightrain”, of tremendous power, with its long '80s dress worn as the sole evocative piece of ancient glory. But it’s with “Wicked Stone” that we reach peak pleasure, initially only feigned by the lady to my left. The song flows smoothly, and midway through, Saul's solo of solos kicks in. Ten minutes on the clock, which my arm and right shoulder still remember very well. My smartphone is the highest, six hundred seconds immobile, pointing at the Gibson played by Slash for most of the duration, head down and knees half bent. The world seems to have stopped turning, much to the flat-earthers’ delight. "Just a few more seconds and it'll be over, and I'll reclaim my arm," I kept thinking, at a certain point aiding with my left hand to avoid tremors that could ruin the work done so far.
My better half looked at me proudly and astonished, Slash had no intention of stopping, he injected another riff and nominated himself as the absolute MVP of the evening (as if the title wasn’t already his by right). The pick slowed, my left hand prepared to go home, the song ended. Awe but also relief from everyone, because we knew those ten minutes alone were worth the ticket price, but at a certain point, also enough. People looked at each other astounded, another hint of marijuana scent (this time blatant), open applause. Slash thanked us, showcasing the freshness a common mortal would have after a shiatsu massage. The hat didn’t budge an inch, and even today, after years, I wonder if it’s glued to his head with some industrial double-sided tape. Fifty-four springs (today three more, but little has changed), so much smoke, alcohol, and a fair amount of drugs without feeling its weight.
The rest flowed wonderfully, as adrenaline brought the heart back to a normal rate. Among others, “Starlight” was pure emotion, through Kennedy’s velvet voice, which returned bright and agitated with “World on Fire”, for the final two-twenty punch with “Anastasia”, which we listened to, tired and with frazzled synapses but hearts full of joy.
We left the Fabrique browsing the shirts (as I always do, I bought one before the official stalls were overwhelmed). We communicated through lip-reading and confused gestures, given that the inevitable ringing in our ears began its two-day stint with usual assertiveness.
We had no idea what was coming at the end of that year. That our heirs were about to take off and it would be our last concert before a long break. But if my better half and I had to choose a random concert before the forced stop, this would surely have been one of the best decisions ever made.
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