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Rating: It won't leave anything but dust in its path.
The Arcimboldi already presents itself in the late afternoon as a beautiful mix of people and styles. There are the nerds with black glasses talking about "Bone Machine," the followers of Our Man flaunting felt hats under the July sun, romantic couples at the Caffè Concerto, the patricians, and those invoking sandwiches and beers from the greasy hands of a pork sandwich vendor, the splendid plebeians.
Entering the theater resembles the filling of a colossal Noah's Ark. There is also a hint of Babelian memory, so much so that during my usual pre-concert urine break, a guy washing his hands looks at me and sketches out a "it's gonna be cool?".
Sperem, I think to myself in Modenese.
Even Manuel Agnelli arrives. Finally, the ritual can begin.
The band enters. And in the darkness appears the grim figure of Tom Waits. The flashing red lights are the prelude to a robust start, entrusted to "Lucinda".
"Rain Dogs," the album to which the author of these words is most attached, is represented here by "Rain Dogs" and by a very different "Jockey Full of Bourbon". In this regard, a consideration: the band is a bit of a disappointment. Scholarly and predictable, they stick to the basics without a spark. Without a shred of charisma.
Waits' voice, initially seemingly worn from the third consecutive night, strengthens over time. In the end, it roars with fervor. Tom gives the impression of a hard-to-die snake, crawling, slamming raising dust, you think he's dead, and inexorably he bites, injecting venom.
His charisma is certainly not lacking.
The slow version of the concert is splendid, with four masterful pieces played with elegance on what years ago was a slightly tipsy piano, accompanied only by a double bass. Four songs, four pearls: "On The Nickel", "Tom Traubert's Blues", "House Where Nobody Lives", "Innocent When You Dream", light as embraces.
In these cases, there's no escape. Would you almost curse him?
Throughout the concert, Waits alternates between more and less recent tracks. From "Cold Cold Ground" to "Bottom of The World", from "Hang Down Your Head" to "Way Down In The Hole". The finale is left to the powerful tracks of "Real Gone", the latest masterpiece released. The notes of "Hoist That Rag" (how I missed Marc Ribot's guitar?!) and "Make It Rain" become choral screams. The clapping is uncontrollable. And Tom exults, almost like a lion tamer.
We call for a second encore. The lights and music seem to herald a "Time" given on a thin thread. But nothing. It will suffice.
Because finally, the Ogre of Pomona has been here and made his presence felt (finally).
Also ringing in our ears a growled phrase: "in France you can go to a jail if you kiss a stranger?". It seemed like a warning to those who would soon hear him in Paris.
Crazy. Dangerous. Cursed Genius.
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