Tora! Tora! Festival - Final Leg

As most will already know, this is the touring summer festival dreamed up by Manuel Agnelli, singer and guitarist of Afterhours, and organized by his record label Mescal. The festival's closing showcase, in Milan, of this celebration of independent Italian music is tied to the Milan Festa de l'Unità, of which it forms the key opening event of the final week. A rather fortunate coincidence for yours truly, since it gives us the chance to feast like God himself - can we say God at the Festa de l'Unità? - before the marathon day gets underway (though the prices, at least, are anything but political), and to easily reach the front rows of the floor even by showing up at the entrance of the former Palavobissardi just ten minutes before the scheduled start: the queue is already substantial on one side, but the right-hand entrance is inexplicably almost empty. We're inside in a flash, under the disapproving stares of the kids still waiting in line.

It's summer's swan song, but the cooling system does its best to cope. There's a nice thick darkness, and fifteen short sets await us over a full ten hours of music. Not bad.

Things kick off around half past three with Cesare Basile* and his band, in front of a crowd that's still unfortunately sparse, though it will grow exponentially as the afternoon goes on. The bohemian Cesare performs four songs that seem to point straight back to the De André of "L'indiano" and "Le nuvole", just a touch more rock; the results are, on the whole, rather disappointing, except for the full redemption of the fifth and final track, "Venere", a word Basile pronounces and sings almost through clenched teeth, making it sound almost like "Vermeer" - which, incidentally, may well be what makes the song work.

Intensity and volume rise with the Piedmontese band Mambassa*, who unleash a brand of rock that, while not making a religion out of originality, is undeniably well-crafted and engaging from start to finish: the price to pay is the lack of anything that truly stands out from the rest. But that's fine as it is.

That's fine, especially in light of the band that followed, Lotus*, on the Mescal label and fronted by the vaguely unsettling Amerigo Verardi, who — in perfect keeping with the pajama bottoms he forgot to take off before hitting the stage — tries to lull the entire crowd to sleep with the most predictable indie rock imaginable. He very nearly succeeds with yours truly.

Onto the stage come Estra*, led by Treviso's own Giulio Casale. It's immediately clear that the band, and especially its frontman, enjoy a following that (to me, at least) was quite unexpected: the blond frontman appears before the crowd bare-chested and fires off rounds of a rock sound leaner and more rusted than that of the earlier Mambassa, thereby earning some slack for his lyrics, which are greeted enthusiastically by most of the audience, who know them by heart. The brief monologues with which Casale introduces a couple of the songs, as well as his stage conduct — culminating in a stage dive just a few feet from where I was standing — confirm the natural affinity of "Giulio! Giulioooo!!" for being Italy's own Patti Smith (he too has won literary prizes).

Brutality strikes back with Linea 77*, whose crossover sound is driven by a decidedly dominant rhythm section straight out of the Michigan meat-grinder school, a statement of intent confirmed by the presence of a kicking bull spanning the entire stage. It's noise perfectly capable of unleashing the basest instincts in part of the crowd, prone to hurling themselves at their neighbors with feral enthusiasm. The peak comes with the closing "Ketchup Suicide". Even if there had been anything worth saying about the music, readers will forgive whoever was too busy just trying to survive.

Things pick back up thanks to the reliable Marco Parente. Making extensive use of horns (unusual in this kind of setting), he runs through a handful of tracks from his latest record, "Trasparente". The most striking moment comes with the participation of Cristina Donà on backing vocals and an only-slightly-surprising appearance by Agnelli on piano, dressed in a red shirt that, combined with hair badly in need of a trim, gives him an almost gnome-like look. A personal regret: the absence of the Genoese-flavored cover "Ho visto Nina volare", featured on the recent De André tribute published by Il Mucchio Extra.

A musical high point is then reached by One Dimensional Man*, a trio in which the drums are front and center, both physically and musically. They deliver a noise-post (whatever that's supposed to mean) sound in which, both for structural reasons and because of the less-than-ideal acoustics, the bassist/singer's fast, English-language lyrics (he introduces the songs in a curious, almost Roman accent!) are unintelligible to anyone not already familiar with them. It doesn't matter, just as the blatant debt to Don Caballero and especially Shellac isn't really relevant: this is thoroughly enjoyable music, and superbly crafted too.

I suspect Verardi had a hand in booking Bologna's own Yuppie Flu, the sole Homesleep standard-bearers of the event — and we'll survive just fine without Midwest on the bill — since the band, fronted by an evidently overweight blond guy, sets out to accomplish the same soporific feat that Lotus failed at: they only just avoid succeeding, thanks to the undeniable quality of their closer, the long "Drained by diamonds", whereas the rest of the set had slipped by like still water. So there's hope for them too, in other words.

The last Yuppie Flu track serves as a fine aperitif for one of the best sets of the whole day: the twilight performance by Turin's own Perturbazione. The band's sizeable line-up wins you over from the moment its members, cellist Elena included, walk onstage with an unforced modesty, and from the sight of these grown adults with families to support who choose to spend their time out on the road playing music. They play well, with an effortless perfection, tempering their indie instincts with debts to the best of the Italian tradition that never feel embarrassing. The singer, Tomi, radiates such happiness and ease that I felt an admiration bordering on envy — a good kind of envy, mind you. As has become tradition, "Agosto" and "Il senso della vite" come with Tomi wading right into the crowd, unfailingly managing to get the whole audience involved. Perturbazione's little vignettes are colored by the hardest kind of irony to pull off — not shallow, not crude, not mean-spirited, simply intelligent ("It takes guts to be kind", as Morrissey would put it). They've always managed, and still manage, to get the best out of any situation, and you should all go buy their record "In Circolo" — seriously.

In any case, the long-awaited Cristina Donà holds her own right after, with a short mix drawn from her three albums, "Tregua", "Nido" and the most recent "Dove sei tu" given pride of place: the acoustic opener "Nel mio giardino" is evocative and well chosen indeed. Unlike the vast majority of Italian female voices, Donà isn't prone to excessive vocal indulgence, so the instrumental parts gradually take on more importance without the overall quality of the performance ever dipping. The crowd loves it. "Goccia" is a gem.

As evening falls, alongside a growing and inevitable weariness among those who've been there since the early hours, Mazda Palace finally fills up completely with people who've come specifically for the "star" acts: by eye, the crowd comfortably tops six thousand, to the legitimate satisfaction of Manuel Agnelli.

The pause that allows Morgan*'s entourage to arrange the fake flowers so essential to the former Bluvertigo man's performance is as long as it is pointless. Good old Castoldi then makes his entrance, preceded, as is only fitting, by his musicians, among them an unlikely postmodern keyboardist-effects man, an equally singular percussionist, and a dwarf guitarist who aspires to be the Des Esseintes of the occasion but seems instead to have been dragged bodily to Milan from some cut-rate Cavern Club. Morgan opens with "Altrove", and the crowd largely approves, while this writer is already thinking he'll have little to say about something that not only fails to please him but leaves him completely indifferent. Castoldi tries to set himself up as a Sylvian figure, but doesn't pull it off: the result is a mess of embarrassing banality. Toward the end he attempts to echo the worst of Battiato, the "Fleurs"-era Battiato, and again fails miserably (this time misunderstood even by the shrieking fans). Fortunately, from the halfway point of the set onward, I'd found a pleasant distraction in contemplating Elisa's pretty face backstage.

Knowing in advance that Modena City Ramblers were coming up, this writer thought it wise to slip away in search of a beer, somewhere to sit, and earplugs he was unable to find; for the sake of completeness he's thus forced to report just a few fleeting impressions of the moment: a girl who was probably there to listen to Giovanni Lindo Ferretti and Marco Parente rather than to get trampled by a couple of charging buffalo; a musical vein that finds its fullest expression in the much-adored "Bella Ciao" and in the chant "Chi non salta è Berlusconi chi non salta è Bossi-Fini" (a Minotaur of our times?!, ed.). From up above I then get a panoramic view of a few thousand "kids" (sic) so independent as to end up looking sadly more alike than the very people they're trying to distinguish themselves from, what with all the facial hair and assorted t-shirts — though the paradox is only apparent. I make it back in time to see the last lipidic sliver of the frontman disappear off the right side of the stage.

Fighting your way back to the front rows for the Per Grazia Ricevuta set is no easy task, but is nonetheless accomplished in time: Giovanni Lindo Ferretti's band rewards me with a performance as brief as it is evocative, one that recalls the atmospheres of "La terra, la guerra, una questione privata" more than those of the recent "Montesole". Ginevra Di Marco is present throughout, alongside the "shaman" of Reggio Emilia, on every track: they open with what may be the finest moment of Ferretti's entire career, "Cupe Vampe", and the crowd falls into rapt silence at once. The instrumentation is minimal and effective, Pippo holds his own with skill, and Maestro Magnelli dominates with the two voices. "Unità di produzione" is still spine-tingling, and, inevitably a touch less impactful but performed with equally superb craft, "Sorgente d'Asia" and "Come bambino" from the sole album released under the PGR name. It all closes in grand style with "Linea Gotica", during which Ginevra gives everything she's got. True to form, Ferretti takes his bow from the crowd with characteristic restraint, amid rapturous applause.

The slot given to Per Grazia Ricevuta should have run longer, especially in light of the hugely acclaimed performance that followed, from Marlene Kuntz. The band from the Langhe takes the stage after a wait as nerve-wracking as it is fitting for the "star" status they've earned thanks to their last two barely-more-than-laughable albums. Tesio seems impatient to wrap things up and clear out from the very start, while Godano, who'll switch through three guitars over six songs, sports an expression I can only describe as "punchable", topped off with a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. As if that weren't enough, perhaps also because of the shrieking girls and the jostling one has to fend off, the acoustics are terrible: so, after sitting through what is in my opinion the weakest track on the otherwise excellent "Catartica", namely "Sonica", this writer decides to slip away as best he can, unable to mentally stomach the crowd's adolescent self-identification with lyrics like: "Some days, living is shit". Once again, after an "Ape Regina" delivered with all the finesse of chicken feed, I manage to secure a good spot, both to shout "Bravo! Bravooo!!" at Godano, who thankfully makes room, and to listen to the closing set.

And closing out the evening (we're nearing midnight) as well as the entire tour are, inevitably, Afterhours, with Manuel Agnelli swapping the aforementioned red shirt for a dreadful short black number (which reveals a bit of a paunch), a sartorial abomination one can only forgive thanks to the superb performance he's about to deliver. The Milanese band's relentless, years-long touring schedule has taught them exactly what, how much, and how to give an audience on occasions like this: few frills, plenty of songs, and generous, unadorned helpings of the best kind of rock.

After the customary celebration of the sheer size of the crowd (and nobody had left), they open with a "Milano circonvallazione esterna" that couldn't possibly be more fitting. The audience's heartfelt participation (many of whom, from personal experience, couldn't better embody Agnelli's lyrics if they tried) confirms as much. What follows is a poorly executed cover of one of what this writer considers Fabrizio De André's less inspired songs, "La canzone di Marinella". A lull, then, and one not exactly warmly received, as one might expect, by the crowd. So much so that a neighbor lets slip an irritated: "Come on, just play Male di Miele already!". His wish will be granted, but not before an excellent version of "Non sono immaginario", less elaborate and probably superior to the studio version, which the crowd vigorously approves of. Next comes what is perhaps Afterhours' most successful song, that very "Male di Miele" which doesn't rank among my personal favorites, and which — unlike the track before it — could have used a bit more precision in execution: but what's on offer, Agnelli frantically grating away at six strings above his head, is more than enough to fire up the crowd, hopelessly smitten with the band (myself included). The band's collaboration with Tiromancino also stays on solid ground, with Agnelli singing a verse of "Per me è importante" and Zampaglione returning the favor by launching into "Quello che non c'è": the whole thing stays just on the right side of the line that saves it from the garish, mawkish disaster typical of so many similar pairings (think Pavarotti and Friends…). The reason is simple: both songwriters know exactly what they're doing, and in the end these are two extremely well-crafted songs.

"Le verità che ricordavo" precedes the interlude featuring Elisa, who deserves credit for a fair amount of courage in offering a decidedly rock-oriented crowd a couple of songs stripped down to just voice (occasionally almost too piercing!) and piano, which she plays herself: the very recent "Lullaby" and, secondly, "A little over zero". Whatever else can be said, these were far from unsuccessful examples of the genre - so much so that, aside from the predictable grumbling of a minority of the audience, Elisa receives considerable applause at the end of her set. At this point you can feel the crowd's desire for Afterhours to play their trump cards, which is exactly what happens, in the best possible way, when, after a "Bye bye Bombay" sensibly shortened and stripped of production frills, Agnelli chooses to first offer an excellent cover of "Mio fratello è figlio unico" - even better than Rino Gaetano's original and superbly performed - followed by a pairing from the band's most famous and most accomplished album: namely "Voglio una pelle splendida" and "1.9.9.6.". By that point the whole venue is in proverbial delirium, and any attempt to describe the mood, both collective and personal, would be pointless: suffice to say that before the musicians' final parade, the thank-yous and the goodbyes, there's still room for the closing song of the whole summer, and it can only be a "Dentro Marilyn" faithful to the original that everyone present knows note for note, with Cristina Donà's usual vocal contribution. And tied to this final moment is the image that stays with us as, past one in the morning, we all head out of the arena and toward the parking lot, certain - and already looking forward to - filing it away, without forgetting, until next year's fourth edition. It's badly needed.

* This symbol indicates that the author of the piece you are reading knew little or nothing about the musician in question. While we're at it, the undersigned begs forgiveness for the many inaccuracies that will pepper the text: taking notes was physically impossible, just as it was impossible to remember every nuance of ten hours of music. Fans of the artists mentioned should therefore forgive him, especially since he is himself firmly convinced that the key aspects of any concert lie elsewhere entirely.

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