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I haven't lost anything, I haven't twisted my ankles, I've jumped, moshed, kissed, shouted, sweated, and drank just the right amount... miracles from Tool.
As for the pre- and post-concert, it's worth noting the OPEC-like cartel of Neapolitans with cold beers in front of the Forum. I want a 66cl beer, I go to the first vendor and it's four euros. I go to the second and it's three and a half. The guy takes the money first, then notices he's being watched by his fellow vendor and pretends he's been swindled. The pantomime would be enjoyable too, but two hundred meters away there are Tool, so bye-bye Naples and go Maynard.
They start with the usual half-hour delay, and the martial intro already heats up the friends of heavy moshing. As soon as the guitar pedal is pressed, there's no time for pleasantries. In the fifth row, we're flying, both from shoulder shoves and from the sight of the man everyone calls John Maynard Keynes but who isn't called that at all. He arrives in jeans and a Texan hat, and you immediately understand who's in command. We rowdy ones in the front rows don't really get much attention, but it's only fair; for contact with the audience, empathetic banter, and other such nonsense, go see Ligabue. Here, we make music, no bullshit. And it's serious music. Toni, the one who was told, "You're not social. You're too Tool," stays in the stands fifty meters from the stage, to better enjoy the acoustics and the light shows set up by these four Californians who have nothing to do with the Red Hot, the sun, the babes, and all the hedonistic imagery associated with Los Angeles.
The Forum isn't full, all the better. In the front, they immediately take their shirts off, in the back, you can get a beer in peace. Maynard takes off the Gei Ar hat (written J.R. doesn't quite capture it) and out pops the phenomenal mohawk, like Giovanni Lindo Ferretti with CCCP, a sort of brick on his head, it's so thick and solid. He keeps singing next to the drums, almost with his back to the audience, maybe to show off the tattoo on his spine, more likely because he already knows that there's hell below, no need to check.
Adam Jones, the guitarist who also directs the videos, is planted on stage and with his gaze oversees everything, Justin Chancellor, the bassist, seems like the most laid-back of them all, occasionally smiling and shaking his curly hair, not a small feat. The encores start, I head into the madness. Amidst a thousand electric balds, I recognize Geeno, and Teeno follows. I remember to keep my elbows high, I almost lose a shoe, I take hits and give them, and it's fantastic. I've never paid so much for a concert, but as they say in these cases, it was worth every penny of the ticket.
And the syllogism satisfies.
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