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Rating: The Background
A couple of weeks ago, Er Cecato calls me, all breathless: "Hey uncle, quick, put on channel three, I'm on TV, I'll tell you later."
I turn it on, there's the program Report, and a segment starts: there's someone filming from inside a moving car that turns onto a country road; at some point, coming from the opposite direction, a Smart approaches; the road is too narrow, they can't pass; immediately, Er Cecato's big head pops out of the Smart; "Mom, Dad, put it on channel three, look who's there," I shout; then two guys with police vests appear; what is this, "Just for Laughs"? I keep thinking.
I call Panza, so he can have a good laugh too, but it rings without answer; he's surely already parked in front of the TV, cracking up: crazy laughs!
The video ends almost immediately, then a spiel about rigged contracts, bribes, and various nonsense begins; I turn it off, go out, and head to the cinema.
When I return, I make a few phone calls to the aforementioned people, just to have a laugh: no one answers.
Look at these sellouts, they became famous a few hours ago, and they already don't answer old friends ...
... A few days later, I'm lazing about in front of the computer and I find out on DeBaser that Gnagnera is organizing a DeMeeting in Milan at the Saints' concert.
I start getting jittery, eyes wide, tongue dry, and salivation zero. I go on Gooooogle and search for “Saints tour Italy 2014”: I get thrown to a site that lists only three dates, in Milan, Turin, and Bologna. What about Rome, what about Rome? Have they erased it from the map?
I get mad as a rat and post a comment where I affectionately send Mr. Bailey to hell, privately mentioning all the saints in Heaven.
Imasoulman replies to my comment and kindly points out that the Saints are indeed coming to Rome.
I redo the search on Gooooogle; I get thrown again to the usual site; I look more closely, and indeed, I notice a section dedicated to Roman concerts. I start getting jittery again, eyes wide, tongue dry, and salivation zero, as above: Saints, December 7, 2014, Sinister Noise Club, Rome. Yayyyyy.
I go back on DeBaser and organize my own DeMeeting: no one answers, no one participates.
I don't want to go alone.
I call Er Cecato's crew again. I doubt they like the Saints, but hey, let's spend an evening together, have a drink, maybe they, who know everyone, can even get me a free ticket. They don't answer this time either.
Screw it, I'm done with them!
You know what? I'm going to the Saints concert with someone else.
I call Marco and Daniela, survivors of the glorious Sally Beats Rifles.
They answer; they're like siblings and haven't forgotten old Pinhead.
They rush down from the Sienese hills and the Abruzzese coast to the Capital, arriving Saturday December 6, the concert is on Sunday 7, the eighth is a holiday, so we plan to also go greet Pope Francis at Piazza di Spagna.
The Preparations
How should I dress for a concert of old punk legends?
I start thinking about it on a full stomach after dining generously with Daniela and Marco. Nothing comes to mind, so I head back home and leave them in the hotel trying to find someone begging them for an autograph.
Around three in the afternoon, the inspiration hits: dark blue velvet pants, white shirt with dark blue and light gray stripes, very dark blue sweater with a “V” neck and three buttons strictly open, so the white of the shirt contrasts the overall dark, fake-EnricoCoveri socks and brown boots.
It's just that I gave away all my Ramones, Clash, and Fuzztones t-shirts, I don't distress my jeans anymore since I started buying them with my own money, I never had a Fonzie jacket, and this is the best I can come up with.
Anyway, the clothes are in perfect condition, I don't even need to iron them, saving time.
Time necessary to get properly pumped: I put on «(I'm) Stranded» and listen to it in one breath, I also put on «Eternally yours», only listen to side one, put everything back, say goodbye to mom and dad and tell them not to wait up, and leave.
Before going out, I grab my sunglasses, just like Sterling Morrison's in a famous photo session outside the Factory, so during the concert, I swap them with my prescription ones and look tougher than I already am.
I can already picture the scene: a real cool guy!
I go pick up the two I left at the hotel and take the opportunity to introduce them to you: Daniela, the singer who gets more beautiful with time, and Marco, the drummer who even more than me looks like a tax office employee nearing retirement, which comforts me quite a bit. Daniela still has the rocker physique, but Marco and I certainly do not; we unanimously acknowledge it, although she laughs maliciously, while we two maintain a decidedly more laconic demeanor; we agree, however, that if there's a bouncer at Sinister Noise's entrance, she'll do the talking and try to convince him that the two show-offs she's with, once truly loved the Saints, the Birdmen, and even the Chosen Few.
So said, we leave Bracciano shortly after six.
The Sinister Noise Club (and a little restaurant nearby too)
If we had gone to Sinister Noise on a Monday morning, it would have taken us hours to get there.
However, on a Sunday, the road flows beautifully, with «White light, white heat, white trash» by Social Distortion playing in the background to increase the excitement. Daniela, in the back, remembers and sings every blessed song by heart, she's seated in the middle with arms wide, resting on the front seats as if embracing us, and her head pops between ours; Marco and I join in for the choruses, he even does some headbanging from time to time; I’m at the wheel and can’t afford it.
It goes on like this for almost an hour.
At a certain point, we arrive at our destination in the Capital of the World. I park.
We stroll for about twenty minutes and arrive at Sinister Noise.
We are about an hour early. It's just that I'm a worrisome kind of guy and always arrive monstrously early compared to scheduled times: Daniela and Marco begin to affectionately insult me, I put on a brave face despite the situation.
We move on and step into the first trattoria promising carbonara, tripe, and lamb, and drown everything with ample wine from Castelli; at least they do, I’m teetotal and stick to water.
Between burps, we joyfully acknowledge that, since the Sallys times, we see each other a couple of times a year: far too little, we should reunite at least once a month. It’s been twenty years that, unfailingly, we solemnly promise that things will change soon. And for sure, in 2015 we’ll meet a few days in the summer and, if all goes well, around Christmas, to exchange good wishes and a good-luck embrace under the mistletoe sprig.
Sated and filled, I rise and go pay the bill, because my two table companions don’t even think about splitting it evenly. Perhaps my enforced gentlemanliness will finally impress Daniela, whereas I have no intention of impressing Marco at all...
Anyway, we step out and head towards Sinister Noise.
There are no bouncers, so we enter without issues, even Marco and I.
Upstairs, there's a very nice bar, and below, the concert hall.
Someone's already playing below, we peek in for a few minutes to gauge the atmosphere and then head back upstairs to amiably converse about the good old days, concluding with undeniable certainty that the Sally Beats Rifles were decidedly cooler and more stylish than tonight's openers and that, given so much, we could have even opened for the Pistols' reunion.
And then, what happened to you since the last time? What have you been listening to/reading/watching? Did you hear about so-and-so? Your folks, all good? It went well, I'll come visit you eventually...
Until it's time to head down and raise hell.
The Saints
Can you imagine two near-retirement tax office employees raising hell?
Someone in the sparse audience tries, it's just that to me, over-50s acting like fiery adolescents have always saddened me immensely, so much so that if I still had the Ramones t-shirt and the distressed jeans, I certainly wouldn’t have worn them tonight, and dressed as I am, I feel perfectly comfortable.
So willingly, Marco and I settle in the back row: no way we're slam-dancing, at most we'll give each other a couple of friendly shoulder bumps if and when “Stranded” kicks in, and we’ll sing along with the chorus if the short breath allows us. Daniela places herself more towards the front, well-intentioned on dancing and singing, even aiming to storm the stage for a dive that, she's confessed, will go down in history like those she attempted at the dawn of her 18th year.
.......................................................................................................................................................
Return Home
Marco waits outside, I'm the second to reach the exit, Daniela is, as always, the last because she’s always liked being in demand.
We retrace our steps back to the car, and Daniela doesn't shut up for a moment: in less than half an hour she condenses the story of her entire life. Marco, at regular intervals, bursts into fits of laughter barely contained; I make strange faces, trying to unplug an ear that's been blocked for a while, while the other rings with a persistent whistle.
We get in the car, same positions as on the way there, but the music changes. On the way home, we are accompanied by Bob Dylan's “The Freewheelin'”: it’s a short album, but in that short time, we neither sing nor talk much. I keep my eyes fixed on the road, Marco stares out the window, while Daniela crouches in the back almost in a fetal position, and now and then, I check in the rearview to see if she's fallen asleep or is still with us.
As the last notes fade, I ask the two on board if they’re still awake.
Sure they are.
Daniela stretches, sits up, and puts her face between ours again, hugging us through the seats; Marco looks alternately ahead at me and Daniela, then starts a more serious than funny conversation about how we’ve aged and that perhaps the old Bob Dylan suits us better than the 2014 Saints and if tomorrow weren't the 8th of December, he wouldn't have come to the concert, and ultimately he’s glad to have come because it's given us a chance to spend two days together.
A peace akin to the serenity of January 1st gradually envelops me, the kind that you feel when you walk out around nine in the morning, the streets are deserted, not a car goes by, and it's calm enough to let you entirely forget about midnight's revelries.
Since I'm ahead of schedule, I bring the conversation back to its comfortable, earthbound level, encouraging Daniela to get serious and settle down rather than planning dubious stage diving, pointing out that she's getting older and should start a family, ideally with me since we played together and she loves X, and if she's Exene, I'll be her John Doe, omitting the fact that the pair eventually split. She tells me that if we were married, we certainly wouldn’t be in the car right now, returning from the Saints concert, and we'd have had less fun, for sure. I think that maybe we could have had as much, if not more fun, but I obviously keep that to myself.
Pretty much like when I first met her, and she rejected all my advances, telling me I was one of the few people in the world (another one's sitting to my right) she wouldn't ever date because she enjoyed our time together too much; which I suppose is the alternative version of "I love you like a brother blah blah blah."
I can't stand people who philosophize and spout these dramatic phrases, so I turn on the radio, tune into the wired transmission, and let Albinoni’s adagio play us home.
Marco and Daniela chorus a fuck you my way, and everyone's happy and content.
The Day After
On December 8, we don't go to Piazza di Spagna to greet Pope Francis, maybe another time.
Daniela, Marco, and I stay for lunch with my parents and my brother's family.
Daniela takes the floor and doesn't let it go throughout the meal; we all hang on her every word and tell one another that eventually, she'll stop, and anyway, if she didn't exist, one would need to invent such a woman; so I wholeheartedly forgive her for all the times she turned me down and will continue to do so.
Then, at some point, we find ourselves in my niece's room; she hands me her guitar, asking if I can teach her some new songs because she's bored with the Ramones.
An immediate nod of understanding with Daniela and Marco as we say, “Listen, let me play you this, and if you like it, I’ll teach you.”
I strum some haphazard chords, Marco joins in with some light handclapping, and Daniela whispers, “While riding on a train going west...” and tells my niece about when Bob Dylan dreamed he was back with his adolescent friends, who he would pay his weight in gold to turn the dream into reality.
Marco, Daniela, and I made that dream ours over twenty years ago, and today we made another tiny fragment of it a reality; and for that reason alone, the minutes spent like this have been decidedly more significant than those at the Saints concert.
At five, hugs and kisses, Marco and Daniela head back home.
I also return to my little home, and under the blankets, I start mulling over a review of the Saints concert for beloved DeBaser.
Only, as I write, this is what's coming out.
In the end, I send an email to Marco and Daniela, who cut some parts, sew some others, and ultimately approve; I think about it for a few days and decide to post it.
Still, better to make things clear ...
... so, if among the readers there are magistrates devoid of a sense of humor, I don't know Er Cecato or Er Panza and have never had any kind of conversation with them.
The same goes for the folks, Daniela and Marco.
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