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Rating: “If one of us finished the live show with dry clothes, then he wouldn't be a member of the band anymore!”
True words from Pelle Almqvist, frontman of The Hives, true words.
But let's go back a bit, precisely to the late afternoon of Tuesday, December 4th, when I arrived in Milan: I had never been there before. Damn cold.
A friend from my hometown who now studies there is hosting me, a future aerospace engineer, one obsessed with Star Wars, robotics, you get it. A tough guy.
We decide to grab some beers before heading to Alcatraz, partly to brace against the cold, partly because I was convinced that going tipsy to the The Hives concert would double my fun.
I've always liked them, but never considered them a band of value or relevance, just five maniacs sweating like they were dancing fountains, which has always seemed appealing to me. They give it their all, “they have fun=they make you have fun”, I've always thought.
And this time, I nailed it.
I say goodbye to my Milan buddy who, in my absence, says he'll go binge on kebabs.
I enter Alcatraz, unknown to me until last night: nice, I thought it was ideal, besides it resembles very much my nearby New Age in Roncade, although the latter is much smaller. I enter a bit tipsy, loose and peaceful; the average age of the crowd seemed to be around 25-30 years, making me a tiny irrelevant statistic amid the presence of young twenty-somethings: very low, if not negligible. Oh well.
Opening for the band from Fagersta, Sweden, are the Americans The Bronx: a bit of angry hardcore punk supported by a great voice, although the audience, while enjoying it, wasn’t particularly moved. My slight euphoria from the intoxicating effect began to fade, but I was still curious to see how I’d experience this concert (especially to know IF I would survive, given I boldly ventured into the middle of the crowd near the stage, me, who weighs less than a feather).
“Nordic people are always on time,” I said to myself “They'll play for just over an hour and then go get drunk”. Prophetic me.
Almqvist brothers & Co. took the stage precisely at nine-thirty, and by just past eleven they were already drenched (in truth, they were already soaked after the first five minutes), clinging to a strict bottle of beer with one hand while warmly waving to us with the other.
Yet it didn't go by so fast.
When they entered the stage, chaos erupted, the mad ones took the upper hand and started jumping regardless of my feet, but...”wait a moment.. I'm jumping too. Somehow, I'm jumping like a lunatic!"
The opening is simple, almost paltry: Come on, an opening song that lasts one minute and repeats in “Come on come on”. Basic, but highly effective.
The next track is 1000 Answers, a song I know by heart due to the countless times I've played Fifa 12. The crowd goes up and down, I go up and down, grabbing onto huge sweaty guys to avoid being trampled, jumping like a die-hard fan in a desperate attempt to keep the violent ones at bay, willing or not. Yet, I'm having a blast.
“Milan is called Milan cause it’s My-Land! I am your King!”
Pelle is quite boastful, but like it or not, his smile is contagious and his being "active" in terms of performance (due to the band's rock and rollicking nature) attracts and excites, not to mention “Beady Eye” Nicklas Almqvist, the brother guitarist, with his funny perverted looks and his hunk moves. All dressed in tuxedos and top hats, as always.
The concert is going wonderfully; halfway through I begin to feel tired in my legs, but I've fought, managing not to succumb to the pushes and elbows of the crowd; I carved out a little life space where I could manage these hotheads who stomp and jump.
They play for an hour and twenty, then take a five-minute break and resume with three final songs, including, the last one, the famous Tick Tick Boom which everyone kind of knows and has had stuck in their head for at least five seconds in their life. Me more than that, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
This is the nice side of the Hives, the most famous songs, even though they can be counted on two hands (without perhaps using all the fingers), are, I can say it, an awesome blast. And live, where the room even overflowed with the musicians' sweat, they are even more so.
I’m ready to bet that anyone who doesn't know them, if they went to see them, they’d enjoy their night. Even I, who don’t know all their songs (the ones I remember can be counted on both hands, and even here probably wouldn’t need all the fingers), had fun and got excited with them. I believe this is the true meaning of rock, or at least one of the many.
Finally, a band that teases the audience (“Shut up now! Shut up! Shut up motherfuckers!”/”You can say fuck off but we are on stage now and you’re paying us!) but embraces them, not the usual flattering singer (“You are a fantastic audience”) who then ignores you in a moment. They have their style, and for me, that already honors them.
The guitarist brother with ever-widened eyes even did a stage dive at the end, I initially supported him (I got all his sweat) and for a moment thought of stealing his shoe: they were classy. Then I thought, “no, he might kill me”.
But they're cool, maybe it's because it’s the first time I’ve been to a concert where the band truly interacts with the audience (they even had us sing a birthday song in Italian for a friend of theirs, if you’re reading happy birthday Alex!), but when I think about it, the 30 euros spent were worth it. I had fun, and I recommend everyone to go see them if you get the chance (maybe trying to get the ticket for less dough).
When it was all over, I returned to the cold, sweaty and creaky. I go with my friend to a very nice pub near the center, opening with a decisive “We’re here to eat”. Famished me. The waitress, a girl as ugly as she was stupid, gives us a crappy little table. Meanwhile, she asks what we want to drink, and we order two Cokes. She brings them in glass bottles and charges us five euros each (5! 5! 5 euros each!!). She forgets to come and take our order. She forgets us, and we’re set right in front of the counter. Meanwhile, we stand dazed at the exorbitant prices (5 euros for stuffed olives??). A quarter of an hour passes.
We decide to go eat a damn kebab. Meanwhile, I think back to the concert: it feels like a year ago. And the funny thing is, I already have a great memory of it.
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