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Rating: Due to a missed appointment, a detail absolutely devoid of interest for the reader, on Friday the 11th, in the afternoon, I found myself in Modena. Realizing that the day was now lost (work-wise), I decided to take a walk and stop by a bar or two. I hadn't accounted for the Tokio Hotel concert, which unbeknownst to me, was to take place that very evening.
An enormous flock of screaming teenagers in hormonal turmoil wandered the streets, often accompanied by (or followed at a short distance by) similarly young-looking parents, reminiscent of ineffective sheepdogs. An indeterminate number of campervans occupied all available flowerbeds and sidewalks, with these parents (alas, they could often have been my younger siblings) who seemed more excited than their kids to be "at the concert". Otherwise, you couldn't explain the countless banners stuck to the windows of their vehicles and the "rock" shirts flaunted by mothers afflicted with varying degrees of cellulite and fathers wearing the standard dark glasses.
So, the concert? I don't know; I went back home and had dinner at a pizzeria with some friends that evening. The next day, however, I stopped by my friend who pretends to be young and asked him who these Tokio Hotel are.
Now listen, he says to me: Do a search on YouTube and here's the hit single ("Monsoon", right?). Damn, but they sound like the Nirvana in a pop sauce!! Have you heard the intro and even the ending, with those sketched minor chords?
Wait, I'm not saying these guys are good, but it's undeniable that this piece, rearranged and sung by a vice-imbued voice, would become exactly like hundreds of fake indie-rock tracks that plague the airwaves and delight young rock fans.
And this also explains the enthusiasm I saw on the faces of so many over-thirty-year-olds, and the shirts with even respectable bands that innumerable young fans wore for the concert.
But is rock dead?
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