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Rating: It's always a pleasure to enjoy good music in the comfortable setting of Piazza del Duomo, venue of a Pistoia Blues that is less and less blues. The idea of seeing Peter Hammill and Steven Wilson on the same stage electrifies me quite a bit, and I spare myself the inevitable comments on the sense of the arrangement of the bands for the evening, devoid of any logic and notion of music history, where we witness the paradox in which a good contemporary artist, more derivative than ever, opens the set for a band that made music history, and whom he shamelessly draws inspiration from.
Apart from the controversies, the real detail (not such a minor detail) that's annoying is the crazy idea of seating arrangements. Now, I say: the two bands may be promoters of sophisticated music, and certainly, tonight the Slayer won't be on stage, but for God's sake, we're still talking about rock! I therefore prefer to give up my economical position in the stands (which, moreover, would have allowed me to attend the event from an unpleasant distance) to secure a standing spot near the stage on the right side of the audience, not far from the beers. Obviously, a seated and stiff audience, which must limit its enthusiasm to mere hand clapping, will somehow influence the evening.
Due to the high ticket prices, another disastrous trend of recent times, the event didn't even register a sell-out, tickets are still on sale at the box office after the concert has started, and the stands, both rear and side, are not overflowing with patrons.
What to say: you don't rock like you used to.
Ending the controversial note, let's move on to the substance, and tonight there will be plenty of it. For me, it's the first time with Van Der Graaf Generator, always pursued, but never caught live. The historic English proggers present themselves in a reduced-to-the-bone format, the now customary trio composed of the three historical members Peter Hammill, Hugh Banton, and Guy Evans, who – I add – suffice and are abundant.
The scene before me is surreal: Peter Hammill, seated at the keyboards, on the left, facing his companion Hugh Evans on the right, also side-facing the audience, behind his mega organ. In the middle, between the two, the imposing figure of master Guy Evans, behind the drums. Seeing these three humble old men (time hasn't been kind to them, particularly Hammill), these gentlemen who have written very important pages of music history, confined to the five square meters kindly granted by Wilson, is almost endearing. And also a bit of a pity, since the three are in splendid form and a setup more suited to their status and a more powerful system would certainly have benefited their performance, which is brilliant nevertheless.
What surprises me the most is Hammill's voice (class of '48, we're not kidding), powerful, clear, impeccable. More than singing, Hammill indulges in an eclectic recitative, emphasizing the theatrical setup that over the years has become his trademark: in a word, emotional. Often seated, focused on the piano parts of his legendary ballads, sometimes standing with the guitar, Hammill is inevitably the center of attention for everyone present. His slender, delicate figure (not quite the right idea to wear a huge white T-shirt, with the inevitable "coat hanger" effect that pitilessly stands out), with his awkward and ungainly movements, he's the oracle we will attentively follow with religious attention and worship morbidly throughout the performance. Not that the two companions are any less: Banton towers at the organ, so much that it seems he has six arms; Evans carries forward the complex compositions of Van Der Graaf with agility and precision. The result: the wall of sound created by the three is something remarkable, despite the absence of bass and brass, fundamental elements of their sound, at least in the golden years; and Peter Hammill is the pole star to which everything tends and the comet star that can drag everything along, thanks to an uncommon charisma and a passion and sincerity that remain unyielding despite the passing years.
The most recent pieces (which I personally didn't know) blend well with classics of the past. If the full rendition of the massive "A Plague of Lighthouse Keepers" (from "Pawn Hearts") certainly doesn't leave one indifferent, it's undeniable that "Lifetime" from "Trisector" (2008), an album from the new course of the band, remains one of the most sincere and intense moments of tonight's show. It's still Hammill's big heart that illuminates the progressive contortions of today's Van Der Graaf: dark, dramatic, alienating music, still serving the poetry of that restless and visionary artist who remains Peter Hammill, even at the venerable age of sixty-five.
The set closes with "Childlike Faith in Childhood's End" (from "Still Life"), yet another emotional rollercoaster branded by Hammill's impetuous interpretation, which articulates the words so well that his beautiful lyrics will be intelligible even to those not fluent in English. There were many and strong emotions. However, it cannot be ignored, especially in the latter part of the performance, the perception of slight fatigue, due to the monotony of the pieces rendered in tonight's form. Perhaps Van Der Graaf's music is too complex and full of nuances to be reproduced in three: the emotional crescendos set up by Hammill and company are undoubtedly remarkable, but in the long run, the "sorrowful ballad/explosion/pause/crazy restart/sorrowful ballad" scheme can become tedious, where compositions are long and in many passages tend to resemble each other, especially if one doesn't know the pieces inside and out.
In any case: thank you Peter for tonight and for everything else: the three "old men" hug in the center of the stage and greet the cheering audience, rewarded with warm applause and displays of esteem and affection. The most malicious will comment that, given their age and physical condition, it's time for them to go to bed; others thank them with teary eyes.
Stage setup break. Knowing Wilson's perfectionism and meticulous attention to the most insignificant details, it is understood that the band will not be on stage very soon. The lunar face of the cover of the latest studio album "The Raven that Refused to Sing" dominates the stage; in the background: unsettling ambient music, probably written by Wilson himself. Various figures take turns behind the instruments, testing them, receiving the okay from the sound engineer and gently placing them aside; some place towels on the floor within musicians' reach, while someone even vacuums (after all, Wilson plays barefoot and intends to walk on a clean surface, a guy next to me who seems to know everything informs me).
Minutes pass, the ambient becomes a dark cacophony, making it clear the band is about to make its entrance. "Luminol" begins and excitement is through the roof. I was convinced that after the challenging performance by Van Der Graaf, Wilson would bring some life back to Pistoia Blues. The sounds are still a bit muffled, but they will improve over the course of the evening. The setup built by Wilson is perfect and when he himself makes his entrance, it is a triumph. It's the fifth time, over the years, that Wilson appears before me, and I'm beginning to know him a little. I remember him as shy, head down, whispering, behind the guitar, when his Porcupine Tree didn't yet aspire to wide paying audiences, and their shows were all about emotions and psychedelia. But a lot has changed, today Wilson is one of the leading figures in contemporary progressive rock, in recent years he's done just about everything and more, he allows himself to play after Van Der Graaf Generator without even mentioning them, but above all, he allows himself to indefinitely suspend his Porcupine Tree to fully dedicate himself to his solo career, now strong with three albums, all of which are very beautiful (especially the last two).
And I will say more: I understand you, Wilson. Wilson, it is now clear, is a megalomaniac and wants to legitimately enjoy his life as a professional musician, and for this reason today he prefers to tour with top-notch musicians to whom he almost completely delegates the executive tasks, so that he can rise to the role of conductor and have more freedom and serenity to live the live dimension. Wilson is certainly the beating heart of the show, but on stage, he is not the jack-of-all-trades we have come to know in the gigs of Porcupine Tree: tonight Wilson will walk, gesture, rile up the audience, talk, open little asides, tell the musicians what to do, and even give distant directions to the guy behind the mixer. From time to time, he will pick up a guitar handed to him promptly by a Filipino or sit behind his keyboard contraption, limiting himself to underline the most incisive passages of the pieces. He will therefore dedicate himself a lot to singing (although the instrumental portions of his music are remarkable) and will often handle an acoustic guitar, leaving most of the six strings to the super talented Guthrie Govan.
"Luminol" holds up well live, with its fast start it is ideal to open the concert. Acoustic interlude and suddenly "Luminol" becomes a folk ballad with a seventies aftertaste, and then off with the monumental coda (very King Crimson at first, very Genesis later). "Drive Home" begins and the emotions are again high, particularly in the part dedicated to the complicated guitar solo. As expected, "The Raven that Refused to Sing" will be reproduced in full, impeccably performed by fresh and prepared musicians (the very blonde Nick Beggs on bass – his stage presence is impressive; the essential Adam Holzman on keyboards, the real sonic body of Wilson's new artistic course; the indispensable Theo Travis alternating between sax and flute, adding sounds and colors to Wilson's musical party; session player Chad Wackerman, replacing Marco Minnemann on drums, who is currently busy with Satriani's tour, no joke).
The new songs alternate with many episodes from the previous "Grace for Drowning," songs I preferred live over the more recent ones, less revivalistic and more intimately linked to Wilson's pen, who on one side confirms himself without a shadow of a doubt as an attentive, gifted, and competent professional, on the other side increasingly shows the inability to stop for a moment and focus on songwriting, on writing original songs that reflect his soul and not the desire to have fun and play with the fantastic seventies. Memorable songs Wilson probably won't deliver to music history, but it's also necessary to add that everything tonight is definitely pleasant and engaging. Clear and heartfelt the performance of the ballads "Deform to Form a Star" and "Postcard," but even better "Index," bringing modern sounds and electronics back to the stage that Wilson has recently decided to neglect. The crescendo of "Index," as mentioned, between dark trip-hop and cutting guitars, is undoubtedly one of the moments of greatest pathos of the show, which among other things enjoyed the contribution of projections (not always excellent) in the background to emphasize the varied moods that wrapped the show.
In conclusion, Wilson's concert proved to be a sparkling pyrotechnic spectacle of sounds and images, where the different facets of his artistic vision emerged: moments of fragile singer-songwriting (the immense closing entrusted to "The Raven that Refused to Sing," which on the album didn't drive me crazy, but live gains in intensity and power – notice the moving final crescendo where Wilson abuses the guitar to give depth to what turned out to be more than a piano ballad with a Radiohead aftertaste); imposing and brazen displays of baroque and overflowing progressive rock (the amazing "Raider II," reprised at length in its twenty-three minutes and more, slipping away without ever boring, between King Crimson-like progressions, phases of menacing quiet, and explosions of clanging metal – it is obvious everything moves with an extra gear when Wilson wields his guitar); restless lessons of a modern rock, sophisticated but also heavy (the always welcome "Insurgentes"). The various elements balanced perfectly among themselves, and I must admit that in the final rendering I preferred Wilson's solo performance to the more recent sets of Porcupine Tree.
Speaking of Porcupine Tree, unexpectedly the encore is entrusted to the historical "Radioactive Toy," a track from the very early days (perhaps the first) of Porcupine Tree, when it was still a one-man band, a track I hadn't seen live since the "Lightbulb Sun" tour: another ten superb minutes, between whispered moments and sudden assaults of distorted guitars, which closed in the spirit of atomic apocalypse (think of the projected images) a set that entertained greatly, thanks especially to the professionalism and dedication of a very fortunate gentleman who has made his passion his job.
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