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Rating: And so, Arezzo too surrenders (out of obligation or greed) to the god of money and this new Traffic rises to hoist the banner of the only free festival in Italy. It deserves four stars just for that, but in the end, this small (in terms of editions) festival has quite a few merits.
My dear Albo and I set off from the deep south of Puglia on July 13; exhausted and sweaty from 10 hours of train travel, we arrive in Turin and begin asking around which bus leads to Parco della Pellerina, and this is where my first thought arises: maybe it's just my impression, but the people of Turin couldn't care less about this festival, many are unaware of its existence, and at the concerts, I mostly encountered people from Bologna or foreigners (plenty of French and a few Spaniards).
Arriving at Parco della Pellerina (the main stage venue, although concerts were held at other locations too), we realize we've arrived late and, in practice, missed the Gogol Bordello concert; a pity, I was much more interested in them than in Caparezza, who jumps around, dresses up, delivers his anti-high-speed rail speech, but in the end, it's Caparezza, and that's already a limitation. Anyway, the curly-haired guy manages to keep me entertained, unlike dear Albo, who insults him rudely, but deep down, I find Caparezza endearing, and not just because he's from Molfetta. After them come La Phase, and a sort of uproar begins among the crowd near us because everyone was expecting Manu Chao, and nobody knew about these French guys. After two songs, however, people change their minds; these La Phase are impressive and offer good Drum'n'Bass with added rock or rap parts, and they are definitely engaging on stage; the concert begins to be appreciated belatedly, about a dozen French join us, and the first timid moshing starts. In the final piece, Manu Chao also takes the stage, bass drum over his shoulder, and people start screaming as if Lee Ryan had arrived; it turns out these La Phase are the band of Manu's keyboardist, a blond fellow who sings, plays, and practically stayed on stage for nearly four straight hours.
Ok, now it's time for Manu Chao. His Radio Bemba sound system consists of a bassist (enormous and tattooed, so menacing he could fit in Meshuggah), a guitarist (the virtuoso, really very good), a drummer (el hombre de ferro, as Manu calls him), a percussionist, and the blond guy from La Phase on keyboards and samplers. The chaos begins, there's little to say; you may not even like the genre this musician offers, but you must admit that Manu live is pure pleasure: the tracks are all completely different from the album versions, much faster with new parts: reggae, dub, or even solos. Radio Bemba is a lot of fun, and at Pellerina, there's not a person who isn't jumping and sweating. The only song identical to the CD version is "clandestino," with Manu solo on vocals and guitar, followed by a surprise: Roy Paci (who plays with Manu Chao in Corleone) joins the stage, and the grand finale begins with all the best pieces. Roy's trumpet, as is well known, is magnificent, and a splendid, very fast and unrecognizable version of "king of the bongo" closes the concert, or better, the splendid two-and-a-half-hour-long Manu Chao party.
This is how the first day concludes, dear Albo returns to Bari, and I stay in Turin, sleeping at the station and enjoying the next day's concerts. We start at 6 p.m., in the splendid setting of the Royal Gardens, with Tuma, a band from Lecce, unfortunately terrible and boring; then come the North Pole, an equally crappy group, and finally, the Zen Circus revitalize the audience, three crazies that remind me of Primus (for the level of madness on stage, certainly not for genius) really fun and interesting, the only positive group of the afternoon.
The free shuttle service offered by Traffic works like a charm (though many complained, I don't understand why) and takes me back to Pellerina where I miss the Sons and Daughters, as I'm busy downing a bottle of Martini with some folks from Verona. The Franz Ferdinand; well, maybe it was the Martini, but I quite enjoy the concert, these Scots I never paid much attention to, I only knew their singles, and they didn't appeal to me, but live, despite not being great musicians, they are enjoyable and people sing and dance a lot. They play for a good two hours, offering a nice six-arm drum solo and a funny scene: the guitarist teases "bella ciao" and the audience starts singing it at the top of their lungs, and Kapranos (the singer) can't start the next piece because the audience is screaming, leaving him there smiling like a fool. The concert ends, and I head to Murazzi with the legendary shuttle service, and there awaits the best surprise of these three days. The Ellen Ripley perform in a tiny space of about five or six square meters with dozens of people inside dancing like crazy; Ellen Ripley is none other than the drummer and first bassist of Subsonic, another bassist alternating on an electric double bass, and two DJs plus a completely insane singer. The concert is phenomenal: shards of electronics, drum 'n bass and "jungle punk" (??) blend into a phenomenal hour and a half, the two bassists are INCREDIBLE and their music is powerful, far surpassing Subsonic. The concert is really, really great and I sweat like a madman. Around four, I'll stumble out of that tiny venue, buy some weed and smoke it with the folks from Verona at the station, accompanying them to their train.
The next day I'm dead tired and spend it sleeping in the station's waiting room from eight in the morning until almost six, when reinforcements from the deep south of Bari arrive: Ilario, Posa, Margello, Giandread, and the legendary Busto (thanks for lending me the money for the return!) have arrived in Turin and we all head off eagerly to hear the Strokes. Before them, though, we endure a certain Joan and the Policemen, a woman who sings like she's got a bellyache, with a disgustingly fat drummer and a bassist whose presence or absence doesn't make a damn difference; haute Bari collectively rises to express its disdain with harsh words and hearty laughs, and while it's not polite, she truly did make us feel like milk was running down our knees. Ten p.m., the Strokes take the stage, all dressed fashionably to the last trend and cooler than ever, except for the bassist who is as ugly as sin. They start with "juicebox," and pandemonium breaks loose, I never imagined there could be so much moshing at a Strokes concert, and even Casablancas from the stage admits to being pleasantly surprised. Unfortunately, however, the sound is decidedly worse than on previous nights, and on "Ask me anything," just piano and voice, you can really tell, and the guitarist rightly gets pissed off.
Anyway, it seems people don't care whether it sounds good or bad, they're all here to see how the Strokes are dressed and "... did you know the drummer is dating Drew Barrymore?? ... really! I can't believe it!" and similar nonsense. The concert concludes after just an hour and fifteen minutes, and even if it was still a good concert (the acoustic issues aren't their fault)... and for crying out loud, they could have played a bit longer. Oh well, never mind, people are satisfied anyway, even if just because Nick played the White Stripes' World Cup anthem riff for thirty seconds or because the drummer shouted into the microphone "Italy wins!" at the end... everyone is still happy. Not me, but for the sheep, this is enough.
However, these three days have been really, really nice and all these free concerts are truly a great thing these days; and it's nice to get drunk at Murazzi on the last evening, play a little football with some Moroccans, watch Giandread vomit and so we head back to Bari on the train the next day, without having slept, tired and happy.
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