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Rating: Always the two of us, me and my partner in metallic hangovers. Always the same last-minute decision. Always wasted. Always in the front row. Always late. Thus begins the end of our day. End in every sense. The first of March was a grueling day, personally destructive, set in a stormy week in which I covered several thousand kilometers, tossed here and there by life's vicissitudes. And I never would have imagined that at 6:30 p.m., after the usual call to that other crazy guy (here's the text: "Shall we go?" "Yes."), I could consume so much junk just to stay awake and active, that I practically lost control even before boarding (it was truly an epic journey in which I felt like I was navigating) to Alcatraz. Small note about the venue: I believe it's the home of concerts, at least for my personal taste. I've grown so fond of it; it creates a wonderful connection between musicians and the audience.
Let's get back to us. I somehow manage to arrive on time in front of the venue. I had taken a taxi (I was totally out of my mind, as I mentioned earlier, I felt like I was on a raft), and spoke about Dino Campana with the taxi driver who probably knew nothing about him. Poor guy, he understood how I was feeling and played along. Anyway, once in front of Alcatraz, I get completely caught up, taken in by the faces, the sparkling studs, and the people around me. A great evening is in store. Then I come back to my senses and realize that the damned one still hasn't arrived. I call him. "Picciò nduvi cazzu si?" "Memma! Prim’ mango te l’avev’ dett’ che sto a Berghemo. Comunque arrivo." And here I go into a paranoia because I hear someone playing inside. Every time the venue doors open it's an assault on the sense of hearing. I feel there's a groove inside and people are having fun. And here I am like an idiot waiting for this guy from Bari who isn't appearing around any corner. Then again, a brilliant intuition. Support band. Less than a fart in how relaxed I was, and I let myself be taken by the light trails left in my head by passing cars. Anyway, I'm not telling you what I was seeing because it's time to enter the venue. With the same power as a school bell at the last hour, I hear an "Auèi!" from the guy from Bari. He's arrived, let's have a joint and go have fun.
First pit stop: ticket. 25 euros. Hopefully, they were well spent. Second pit stop (and this one very long): beers. Then we set off. The atmosphere is hot in every sense. The Alcatraz parterre looks like the Colosseum in Roman times. Animals of all kinds: freaks, metalheads, half-pierced rappers, rockers. I don't feel like a gladiator, but I sense that there will be a lot of elbow work. Because I aim right there, at the center of the crowd. That's where I want to go. The lights are on, the stage takes shape, technicians are working, background music accompanies conversations, some sound check attempts. I really like everything tonight. Even a couple of girls to whom I spared my poetic streak, going back to talking about Campana would have been heavy. We were there for Stone Sour. Too bad for the support band, completely missed, didn't even see them up close.
When the lights go down, there's already a frenzy. The people are really pumped, I punch my friend in the head. He gives me a knock on the jaw, so I understand I have to be good. Screams fill the cubic meters of the venue, women screech Corey's name. The keyboard intro of "The Final Countdown" adds to this collective vocal performance. The Americans are on stage. The opener from the latest album starts, the moshing has already begun but I'm there bewildered (bewildered at a concert...). Where's Corey? In short, there's a blonde mane missing up there. While I'm being pushed and beaten, I remain passive and almost sad to see that someone is missing on stage. But that's not the case. That jerk in the center, with shaved hair and a bit of a mohawk, is him. Absolutely in great physical shape. I calm down, shout, "Corey this one wants a child from you," pointing to a girl nearby, and dive decisively into the chaos.
"30/30-150" is raw energy. The frontman immediately gives us a "from the record" performance and the others quickly follow. Fearsome headbanging, muscles and tendons at maximum tension. Drops of sweat fly from the stage. A tremendous start to a night already passing positive judgment. Brilliant performance from everyone. Corey is amused and amusing, smiles, then gives a fierce look, twists on himself to dig deep into his voice. He wants to talk and immediately starts a long series of chats with the people cheering him. And he revels in it. Really well done. I had seen him twice with Slipknot, first in London and then in Milan. Tonight I'm discovering that, in his own way, he is an artist. An American bad boy who comes from nothing and craves having fun, hitting us with sonic blows.
Same goes for "Come (What)ever May": thrill and adrenaline unite the band and the shady characters present for the event. It is a true satisfaction to feel (in the most intimate sense of the term) music played so well. I used to consider Stone Sour a great afternoon pastime, to listen while tidying up the room. By the second song of the concert, my opinion has already changed a lot.
More conversation with the audience, a quick grab of the crotch, a call for participation (never lacking), and lots of words to season the performance of a band of guys still very composed. Stone Sour are really strange, surely "alternative" types, with a well-studied image. But they gave me the impression of being good guys. A nod of appreciation should surely be given to the red-haired drummer. Fluid movements for absolute command of the instrument. Root had fun strumming with his jacket on. The two baldies were continuously laughing, shaking their heads, and looking for each other with their eyes.
The pieces go on quickly (in random order, I don't remember, what can I do?) like "Scars","Your God", "Monolith", "Reborn". Then it happens that everyone goes away, Corey plays coy, looks at us, acts undecided, receives a public ovation and then decides to grab a semi-acoustic and start with songs that take us back to the deeper tradition of American rock. Taylor's genuinely engaging and passionate interpretation, showcasing a voice just right at being abrasive. The anonymous state of Iowa now has a reason to exist. Among the pieces performed, I remember "Sweet Home Alabama" with real pleasure. After a more than deserved avalanche of applause, our guys reappear, and I start again (literally: new round, new journey) with… oh gosh, with what? I'm unsure, but it was surely either "Through The Glass" or "Sillyworld", because everything started again with the acoustic. In short, a gentle part after a soul-crushing start to this concert. A bit of relaxation for the limbs, and a slight drop in energy in the musical offering. And then we continue with "Bother", "Blotter", "Tumult". Surely the last piece closed the first substantial part of the evening. I look at the clock and realize the entire event was short, even though it was wonderful. But I think "What a letdown!" I wanted it to last longer. We're talking about barely an hour. So I start feeling down. Moreover, I realized the guy from Bari is no longer there, and I practically haven't seen him since the second song. He, too, was really at levels of massive drift. The audience starting to call for the band again, after the fake exit, bothers me. I get the feeling it's all over already, but I still need to have fun. In short, they couldn't just cut off the music like that. Everything that had previously produced incredible vibrations is now missing and leaves me empty.
And since in those moments you might also have a surge of omnipotence, when I see Corey again, I'm sure he returned to the stage because he telepathically heard my call. Thank goodness I see them again because suddenly everything comes back to life, and I decide to go wild. "Hell & Consequences" and "Get Inside" are the last two pieces of the evening. Unheard of violence arises on all fronts. People flying, the band deciding to squeeze out every last drop. "Get Inside" terribly reminds of Slipknot. It's truly a massacre that satisfies me, puts my soul at peace, and concludes with big goodbyes from everyone, with many picks around the room, and a fabulous drumstick throw from that hammerer behind the kit.
From here on, I really draw a blank. I only know this 5, despite the hour and a quarter performance, is truly more than deserved.
Great job, Corey & Co.
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