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9 PM. A text from a friend reminds me that The Germs are playing that night. Damn. I knew it for months and had promised myself I'd go. Damn. Abrupt change of plans for Friday night. To hell with the cold. There's not even time for a shower, very punk, perhaps too much. We head out immediately, no ifs or buts!
The venue is called The Cube. A former nightclub, it's a simple cube with a hideous outdated disco decor.
When we arrive (almost 10:30 PM), we have to wait outside for them to start letting people in. It's freezing damn it. Wasn't it supposed to start at 10?!?
Finally, we can go in. Ten euros less, we find ourselves inside. Yes, it’s just as I remembered. I've been here years ago, when it was called the Open Gate. An entire wall is made up of two large windows, overlooking the garden. The stage is right next to one of these windows. This detail will prove crucial.
We're not yet as tipsy as one would expect for such an occasion, so we decide to booze up. A liter of beer, comfortably served in two 0.50 glasses, for 7 euros. This is very pleasant. It’ll be the "usual" to request at the bar throughout the night.
Meanwhile, there are no groups in sight (11 PM and change). The speakers play various music, including "Mongoloid" by Devo. We laugh heartily reminiscing about Ex-Drummer. We also become painfully aware of the cube's awful acoustics. And it’s broadcast at a relatively low volume. We begin to doubt thinking about the volume that The Germs will have at their disposal.
Then Don Bolles, the drummer, appears with the singer, also an E.R. actor, Shane West. With his hair, Don Bolles looks like Jamiroquai. He's wandering around with a Franziskaner in hand. We give him a bit of a hard time. But the golden wrapper around the neck of the bottle didn't seem to bother him much. Meanwhile Shane West is wandering around studying the architecture of the venue. His voice is ridiculous. Just like a good American.
After various outings in the garden and contacts getting drier, we finally hear the sound of an instrument. Sorelle Pestilenza, an all-female punk band, starts setting up. The front-woman is as tall as a 100-watt Marshall. But she's angry as a bee. The drummer is so skinny she looks like she could break at any moment and goes off on her own during the songs. Amid the shouting and embarrassing acoustics, we manage to catch a chorus that goes "my life is a menstruation". In front of the stage, three guys are moshing and singing every song by heart. Lucky them, we think. Not votable, given the acoustics and terrible tunings.
Is Duennas are up next, a Cagliari group formed from various members of various past Cagliari bands. Old stuff, basically. The singer's bomber jacket is snug, his head is shaved, and it seems like he wants to start a fight at any second. When he starts singing, I can't hold back and burst into laughter. Yes, I know, I’m an idiot. They play Hardcore with post influences and other incomprehensible stuff. Rating 1. Boring is a compliment.
Then come I Padrini. A melodic punk-rock band, already known throughout Sardinia and, at other times, even nationwide. The singer-guitarist is more out of it than us and starts spouting nonsense. We have a good laugh, and despite a used & abused genre, they play well and entertain the audience. Fun and snappy lyrics. The drummer goes like a little Duracell train, the bassist plays well but sings poorly, and the front-man manages to finish a song with a loose strap and the guitar under tension, held vertically. Commendable. Rating 3.5 (out of 5, of course!)
So we are ready for the highlight of the evening. Mentally we are perfectly cooked and feel ready to even face Sunn O))). We check the time. WHAT?? 12:30 AM. Damned bastards. I didn't want to be late today! I'm still feeling a bit like crap though... albeit less so. Strange.
But we discover that there's not a shred of the set needed for The Germs on stage. They need to replace the drums, untangle cables, attach effects, and set the volume. And there’s one guy ALONE doing all of this! Discouraged, we drown our dissent by going outside again. We also realize that, given the position, it feels like being in front of a giant aquarium. Our imagination runs wild.
We see them coming out of the door leading to the upper floor (once a restaurant and then the club's VIP area), first the singer, then Bolles, Lorna Doom, and finally the legendary Pat. Yes, Pat Smear, a true legend.
We rush inside and place ourselves next to the speakers at the beginning of the stage, practically in front of Lorna and Don. They start with "What We Do Is Secret" and hell immediately breaks loose. The acoustics aren't great, but we expected worse. The young punk no G.M.O. crowd, with half-meter mohawks, goes wild in front of the stage. There's all sorts of characters in the mosh pit. Practically to get on stage, no effort is required: the step is at most 20 cm high. A frenzy. The tiny singer from Sorelle Pestilenza can be seen surfing over the heads only to end up brutally on the ground. At one point she finds herself with jeans at her knees and panties wedged into every gap. Anyone climbs onto the stage and as the songs go by, the venue fills beyond its actual capacity. A human wall surrounds the band. Their space is reduced to 2 or 3 square meters. Stifling.
The Germs don't give us time to catch our breath, growing fiercer with each song. "Lexicon Devil" blows the roof off, and a packed Cube shows the live show's approval.
We go out to get some air and position ourselves in front of the window, next to Don Bolles' skinny ass. It's frighteningly ugly. Not the ass, him. He’s about six feet tall and weighs barely 88 pounds. Looks like a mix of an aged and vacuum-packed Jacko, Mick Jagger’s wrinkles, and Steven Tyler's mouth. His mouth remained open in an O shape for all around 20 pieces. Epic. He plays like a madman and showcases an impressive if rudimentary technique. As a drummer, much respect! Impeccable and tireless from beginning to end.
The other members were also epic, realizing the audience outside the window, turning towards us and having their backs to the internal audience. Including the drummer! Brilliant.
The only one complaining about the outside audience was the singer. What a jerk of an actor. Yet credit for his performance, the nail polish he wore (seriously!), and the brazen imitation of the late Derby. Even the voice was eerily similar.
He climbed on the speakers, right where we were stationed, and with a headbutt to the brackets holding the lights, he turned on a spotlight. Towards the end of the concert, still bothered by the external audience's presence, he started swinging the microphone against the glass, holding it by the cable and making it swing back and forth. He managed to chip the glass and break the microphone. I would have shoved it back in his teeth. Hey man, you're more punk than me!
Pat Smear was a gentleman. Impeccable live, with a constant smile and a desire to make everyone dance. At a certain point, he literally threw the guitar onto the stage, leaving it to be devoured by the primordial mosh. He watched, laughed, and applauded. You wouldn’t believe how they treated it. Then a mild-mannered and calm-looking boy grabbed it, climbed on stage, and delivered a solo... I can't remember the notes. Grandiose. Anyway, Pat, physically enormous, masterfully polished the tension of every piece, ensuring dynamic and bright sound throughout. Very well done.
Lorna was the same, a great lady. A lady in every sense of the word. A bit like Amanda Lear, to put it another way. With the bass an unwavering metronome. She smiled and waved at everyone, one by one, for the entire live show, which was around twenty songs.
In the end, everyone was happy, big applause and lots of fun. It's just past 2 AM. We have 50 km to get home, and the physical and mental exhaustion is now felt.
We witnessed a fundamental piece of Punk history, of Hardcore and Rock (Pat Smear, you know all there is!).
My cold is gone, courtesy of the Rastafarian and beer's therapeutic power.
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