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Rating: The evening offers moments of pure autumn, it just stopped pouring over Milan, and a wet wind is blowing. I decide to walk to the Rocket, making a quick calculation I deduce that the distance shouldn't be much, so I don't think too much and opt to let Latrina (my car) rest and take a walk. When the steps become four, six, eight, I realize that the calculation was spectacularly wrong, but now I'm on the road; anyway, I love this atmosphere, I love the reflections of the lights in the puddles, walking with hands in pockets, cursing because the lighter goes out with the wind. As I kick yellow leaves and soak my feet on the sidewalk of Viale Toscana, just before turning into Via Pezzotti, one thought torments me: "who the hell are Yuck?".
The Rocket is a hole in the wall, recognized by a large R protruding from the wall at number 52, without which the only window present could look like an animal store, without animals, or the hair salon of a Chinese person, without hair dryers and without Chinese people. The Yuck's van is parked in front, inside sleeps a woman (whom I later find out is Mariko Doi, a bassist blinded by her own fringe), I glimpse a case of Red Bull and one of beer on board. The amber goddess proves to be an excellent way to pass the time before the bouncers arrive and the venue can open; after two Tennent’s, I still don't know who Yuck are, but now I find them likable. The place opens, the bar serves drinks, I down a Long Island, and Yuck becomes my favorite band, I add a Whiskey&Coke, and Yuck are the brothers I never had; all the while I still don't know who the hell they are, but meanwhile, the small Rocket turns red and crams with people, the amplifiers play M83, outside people smoke taking shelter under the balconies. There's a great desire for distraction here, which is indulged with vintage clothes, colorful hair and hats, braces, makeup that highlights eyes, and bright lipsticks. I wear a black hoodie with the colors of Senegal, Cameroon, and I think twelve million other states on the sleeves, dark blue jeans, and black Nike shoes, while I consume a red Gauloises, I feel the first drum beats calling me from inside.
If the Rocket, as already mentioned, is a hole, the underground is a cave with a stage suited for bands of no more than five members. It's cramped, visibility is low, a group of five perfect strangers opens with Indie melodies in English but thanks in Italian, I nod my head in approval. Finally - I think - Yuck takes shape and substance in my eyes, now I can finally catalog them on my Indie Rock shelf as one of those beautiful discoveries that, without a masterpiece cry, leaves that sense of fulfillment at the end of the evening. An abundant half hour and then they say goodbye, I feel a bit robbed of my 15 euros including a drink but never mind, I go back to the bar and revel a bit on the stool before discovering a chilling truth: these weren't Yuck, they were the opening band, called Chaos Surfari. Now the lights in the venue have dimmed or it's my vision that is blurred, a friend orders a Whiskey&Coke too. Having made a fool of myself, I return to the cave, but first, while I'm queuing for the bathroom, an absolute truth brushes me: I can't stay long without the red, green, and blue lights of the dark venues like Rocket, every now and then I need my dose, being among a tribe of strangers all there for those four songs until no one knows them yet, double or triple drinks, stamps on the back of hands to go out for a smoke in anticipation, always, of those four songs that sometimes are just background. The real Yuck arrives now. A mushroom of curly hair with Jonny Rogoff attached to it sits at the drums, Mariko Doi has woken up and clings to her bass, Daniel Blumberg stands on the left with guitar, microphone, and his deadpan expression, Max Bloom on the other guitar to the right. Now we really shake hands, and the grip is one of those firm and relaxed ones, artisan and well-prepared Noise Pop, shot continuously, for an hour, bouncing off the four close walls of the underground cave of the place. The space to sway is even less but I don't care, and let go, in front of me a creature with black, straight, and fragrant hair probably can't stand my constant breath of burger remnants and despite the crowd manages to move two meters away, the available material isn't much (only one album, eponymous) so yes, I can say that Yuck are these, poorly groomed and inexperienced kids who handle music with gloves, mess it up with criteria, they are the ones that see art in a set of colors thrown without apparent reason on a black canvas, that of the Rocket, Via Pezzotti 52, Milan. Isn't this Indie at its core?
I come out, now it's pouring rain, I share the last cigarette with a friend and fortunately hitch a ride at least halfway, I walk home hungry and my initial thoughts of the evening have changed to many one-word thoughts: "Operation," "Georgia," "Rubber."
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