•
Versione 1
Rating: It starts badly. Very badly. An hour late compared to the schedule, a long line at the entrance of the Ex Dogana, Rome. Cigarette butts on the ground, dozens of attendees arriving on time and forced, indeed, to wait in front of the barriers. We said it starts – poorly, but at least for a very good cause. At the Nowhere Festival plays Lino Capra Vaccina, William Basinski, Hieroglyphic Being; put this way, it’s worth the wait and swallowing the bitter pill. It starts – did we say it already? – poorly; but the unexpected thing is that it continues even worse.
Once the queue is unlocked and a reasonably low ticket is paid (it’s correct to emphasize), you enter the hall while Vaccina is already playing. After a few moments, to the still not very numerous present, it is immediately clear the trend of the evening. It’s hard to imagine a stage set more poorly designed for the planned performance. There’s the bar on one side of the stage; the entrance on the other; and then a huge room opening onto a huge courtyard. The result is a constant chatter that overshadows, from the first to the last second, the entire performance of the Italian composer, in a sacrificial trio, who, however, does not bat an eyelid with extreme professionalism. But the disaster is yet to come. When Basinski makes his long-awaited come-in, the situation quickly deteriorates. The artist invites the audience to turn off their phones and not to make video recordings; then, immediately, starts asking for an unheeded silence. When things seem to have barely stabilized, the live takes shape and substance – after a heartfelt and applauded dedication to His Majesty David Bowie. The feeling that it could last is delusion.
When one is not completely distracted by the barbaric hordes, not at all contained by an organization nothing short of failing, one is by the bartenders preparing mojitos, caipirinhas, and moscow mules. It is not – important to reassert – just about gigantic rudeness. It is a problem inherently linked to the scenography, the idea, the form: completely unsuited to hosting those names and those sounds. It’s not the first time a musician demands a faithfully silent audience, there are times and ways to contain – at least – the vociferous hemorrhage of a mass interested only 25%. Yet nothing of the sort happens. As if the artists – akin to puppets – were placed for fun in a fake “right” habitat, therefore, glaringly wrong. Like calling Michelangelo for a commission, and then telling him he has to paint over a pair of broken shoes.
After a series of “shut the fuck up!”s, Basinski continues the show visibly annoyed, with the face and body language of someone who can’t wait to finish. And we with him. He leaves early, supported by the applause of those who fully understand and support him. Perhaps because of this, Hieroglyphic Bling, already aware and burned by the environment, proposes a decidedly loud set: relentless bass and fresh meat for the sharks. Although he delivers a level performance, the evening is now, unfortunately, compromised.
There are no excuses for such carelessness. For failing to assure either the guests or the attendees the conditions required for a proper enjoyment of the event. Even though it surprises – it’s not the first time – the wild state of Roman musical education, it surprises more the Nowhere-thinking. It pains to say it, but nomen omen. One hopes for better in the next episodes.
Tracklist
Loading comments slowly
